A Measure of Devotion
by the lurker
Summary: After one of Doc's most guarded and troubling secrets from his past emerges, Matt must find a way to help the recalcitrant doctor come to terms with an experience that Adams would rather deny and forget.
1. Chapter 1

This story begins with the final scene from "Groat's Grudge," and will contain some scenes that are graphically medical and others that are graphically violent. It may not be appropriate for sensitive readers, so read on with that _caveat_ in mind.

GUNSMOKE

"A Measure of Devotion"

"Libby Prison," Haskett whispered, as Adams' head snapped sharply toward him. "Libby Prison, Doc..."

A cloud of dismay passed over Doc's pale eyes, and his timbre turned slightly hard. "What about Libby Prison?"

"I was there," Haskett said. "My eye. You...you took a sliver of steel out. You saved my eye, Doc."

Dillon swallowed hard; it was another piece of the puzzle from Doc's mysterious past, but one that lent itself to the most appalling possible scenarios.

Adams gently brushed a hand over the man's forehead, running his thumb along the scar just above Haskett's right eye. "Well I'll be dog-goned..."

"Tell him," Haskett pleaded, "tell him I was there, Doc."

Adams rubbed his fingers softly over the only remaining evidence of his handiwork, barely visible in the firelight. He felt Matt lean closer into his left side then, the marshal's voice a soft caress. "Doc, you remember him?"

"I sure do."

Dillon tried to keep the curiosity from his timbre, "Then he was at Libby Prison... with you, during the war?"

"I worked for two weeks to save that eye; I'll never forget that scar. He sure was..."

Matt probed the old man gently, looking for answers not only to Haskett's past, but also the doctor's. "He was there right up until the end of the war?"

"Yes."

Matt nodded. "Then he couldn't very well have been in Georgia with Sherman, could he?"

"Well of course not," Doc growled.

Matt glanced over toward his prisoner. "Did you hear that, Grayson?"

Lee Grayson's voice was filled with emotional contempt, "He's lyin'...they're _both_ lyin'..."

And Grayson sprang toward Haskett, the blade of the knife in his hand glinting slightly in the firelight. Dillon drew his pistol and fired, standing as Grayson's body hit the ground. Slowly the marshal holstered his gun and walked over to the southerner, bending over to confirm what he already knew, garnering no pleasure in having to end the man's life.

"Well, he's dead," Matt said flatly.

Adams shook his head sadly at the patient lying before him, and he gently pulled the blanket covering the man's lower body up over his face. "Matt, Haskett's dead too."

"Oh that's a shame," Chester said, "he was just as innocent as he could be."

Doc pulled the glasses from his face, as he stood. "Yeah, well, war can sure cause a lot of hell."

"Yeah," Matt said, "at least this one's over with...trouble is, like most wars, it ended too late."

Doc swallowed hard and walked over to the patch of trees where the horses were tethered. Matt frowned slightly and turned toward his assistant.

"Chester, can you collect Doc's instruments and put them in his bag for him?"

Chester's brow furrowed, but all he said was, "Sure, Mr. Dillon."

The marshal watched Goode limp over to the campfire and slowly begin to pack Doc's bag, then he headed for the trees; but as he neared the greenery, the sound of choked-off sobs stopped him hard. Matt peered through the brush and saw Doc leaning his face and hands into his saddled horse, weeping. Matt had seen the distress that had flashed across Doc's face when Haskett mentioned Libby Prison, and now he was witness to the harsh reality of the dark shadows that had been conjured from the depths of Doc's soul.

The possibilities landed like a lump in Dillon's gut.

Chester's voice suddenly next to him, made Dillon start, for he hadn't heard him approach. "Mr. Dillon? What's wrong with Doc?"

Matt shook his head. "I don't know, Chester, but I think we'd better leave him be." He looked into the concerned dark brown eyes staring up at him. "You and I have a lot of work to do." He glanced toward the man who had been more of a father to him than his own. "We'll catch up to Doc on the trail back to Dodge; I doubt he'll ride that fast after the hard ride you two had to get here."

"It's awful dark, Mr. Dillon...I don't much care for the idea that Doc'll be riding alone out there on the prairie. Anything could happen ya know..."

Dillon pat the younger man's shoulder. "Don't worry, Chester, Doc's pretty good at taking care of himself. Besides, I think he needs a little time alone right now."

Chester looked past Dillon's large frame toward the distraught physician. "He sure is takin' Haskett's death awful hard."

Matt didn't believe that Haskett's death alone was what had gripped the good doctor's heart with such force, but all he said was, "Yeah..."

Goode limped back toward the dead men and the impending task of burial, but Dillon lingered for a moment, watching the shuddering form of the old doctor as he wept into the worn leather of his saddle. Matt swallowed hard, wishing he could comfort his friend, but given that Adams had always been intensely private about his past, any move on Dillon's part would probably be seen as an intrusion. Matt had heard about the horrors inside the walls of Libby, and if even half of them were true, the thought of the hell that Adams must have experienced soured the marshal's stomach.

The lawman shook his head as he made himself turn his back on his friend, moving toward the campfire. Doc had survived with his memories of Libby for years without ever mentioning it to Dillon, so it was doubtful that the old doctor would fall apart now. And yet Matt's lips pulled into a tight, straight line; he knew from his own experiences that these things had a way of eating at a man until he faced them head on. His guess was that Adams had never so much as spoken aloud of anything he had seen, heard or felt at Libby Prison, and that he had stoically stuffed down his own despair in favor of moving on to help others.

Only time would tell if the unexpected brush with a grievous part of his past would inflict harm upon the doctor's present. Dillon silently prayed that Doc would be spared any further pain in a life that had been dedicated to helping everyone around him at the constant expense of himself. A slight smile suddenly tugged at the corners of Matt's lips, knowing what Kitty would say to him for making such an observation. But if there was anyone Matt Dillon would point to as having set the example of self-sacrifice and dedication toward the greater good for him, it was Doc Adams.

* * *

Having caught up with his trail more than an hour before, Matt and Chester rode at a discreet distance behind the old doctor. Chester didn't like dogging the man from the back, but Dillon was firm in his belief that Doc would be more comfortable thinking he was alone. The old black medical bag rubbed annoyingly against Goode's leg, and once more he adjusted it, unaccustomed to having it tied to his saddle horn. His mind then returned to its previous concern. 

"Mr. Dillon, I jist don't understand why we have ta stay behind him like this. It don't seem right, ol' Doc ridin' up there by himself in the dark, and us so far away."

Dillon tried to keep the impatience out of his voice, although he wasn't entirely successful. "I already explained it to you, Chester. Doc's a little upset right now, and I don't think he wants to make conversation with anybody."

"I didn't say nothin' about a conversation, Mr. Dillon. I jist wanna keep him company is all."

Matt's timbre softened, "I know, Chester. So do I, but what Doc needs right now is a little space, and we've gotta give it to him. Understand?"

Goode didn't, but all he said as he wiped his brow with his sleeve was, "Yes sir."

* * *

It was a hot summer night, and the heat rising off the ground of the prairie made it seem all the warmer. Doc pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket as he rode on, mopping the sweat from his face with it. He shoved the white cloth back into his pants and rode on, unaware of the two men trailing him from some distance behind. The night sky was cloudy and the air thick with humidity, giving a heaviness to each breath the doctor took. It was about as sticky as the old man could remember Kansas ever having been; it felt almost as uncomfortable as Richmond in July - but then, nothing in his memory was equal to that particular discomfort. A frown pulled Doc's brows together as he tried to shove aside the thoughts that had inundated his mind since Haskett had spoken the words "Libby Prison" to him. It was a part of his past that Adams didn't want to remember, and yet it was as influential in shaping the person he had become as his life in Dodge had been. 

But the sting of it still brought tears to his eyes, and visions of horrors that no man should ever know. He spurred his horse into a cantor trying to dislodge the unwanted emotions, but the tears streamed down his face with even more fervor. And he moved the animal into a full run, despite the lack of visibility on the trail. From a third of a mile behind, Dillon's sixth sense sounded an alarm. He squinted in the dark and could see Doc's horse moving with surprising speed across the prairie.

"What in the hell is he doing?" Dillon growled.

Without waiting for a comment from Chester, Dillon kicked his horse into a run. Doc's much smaller bay gelding was no match for the power and stride of Matt's buckskin, and within minutes, Dillon had caught up to the startled doctor, pulling up on the man's reins.

"What do you think yer doin'?" Doc roared.

Dillon looked straight into the enraged pale blue eyes. "Stoppin' you from killin' yourself, or worse, your horse."

"Killin' my horse'd be worse, would it, Mr. Marshal?"

"Yes, Dr. Adams, it would. It's not his fault he's got a jackass on top of him!"

"What did you call me?"

"You heard me. Ridin' like that in the pitch dark on a night with clouds and no moon's an idiotic thing to do and you know it." Doc looked away as Dillon continued to scold him, "You could hit a prairie dog hole or rock and go down so fast it'd snap your neck before you even knew what happened." The more Matt thought about it, the angrier he became. "Damnit, Doc...I know you're upset--about losing Haskett," Dillon added quickly, "but you've got too many people dependin' on you for you to pull an asinine stunt like that."

Uncomfortable with the emotion he could hear in Dillon's voice, Adams shifted his seat in his saddle, and muttered, "You're right, Matt. It was a stupid thing to do. Guess I just wasn't thinkin' too clearly."

"I guess not."

Adams was thankful that Chester rode up then, giving him a reason to change the subject. "Now that Chester's caught up, we can head for home..."

Adams gently urged his bay forward in the direction of Dodge. Matt tilted his hat slightly back on his head, staring after the old man, and he shook his head.

Confused, Chester asked, "What was that all about, Mr. Dillon?"

"Nothing really, Chester," Matt fibbed, "Doc was just blowin' off some steam."

Matt spurred Buck forward, leaving Chester staring after him. "Well forevermore, that was one heck of a way to do it..."

Chester nudged his roan to follow the two horses in front of him, shaking his head at the odd behavior of his two friends. Goode looked toward the eastern horizon and knew they'd be home in time for morning coffee at Delmonico's. He was looking forward to a good breakfast, and if he played it right, he could most likely guilt Doc into buying. A slow grin spread across Chester's lips; there were few things in life that he enjoyed more than goading Adams into doing something the man would grouse about for days to come. But the grin of anticipation quickly dissolved into a line of worry as his mind recalled the distress he had glimpsed in the pale eyes lit by the glow of the campfire only a few hours before. He had seen such onerous looks before on the faces of men who were heartsick from having witnessed atrocities too dreadful to bear; Chester prayed that Doc would realize he didn't have to shoulder whatever was burdening him alone.


	2. Chapter 2

The three men sat in heavy silence at a table in Delmonico's. Chester and Matt exchanged a worried glance over the rims of their coffee cups while they observed Doc pushing his eggs around his plate with his fork.

"Food ain't to yer likin' this mornin' Doc?"

Adams looked up at Chester, a distracted countenance muddling his face. "Huh?"

"Yer food, Doc, yer jist shovin' it around on yer plate instead of eatin' it, so I was wonderin' if it jist weren't to yer liking..."

"It's fine, Chester, just fine." Doc cleared his throat and looked at Goode's plate, which shined as if it had just emerged from the sink. "I see you enjoyed yer steak and eggs." Rallying to put on a good front, the old man winked at the marshal and then continued, "That plate looks like Joe already washed it; did you lick it when I wasn't lookin'?"

"Well at least I know how to enjoy my food, Doc," Chester responded, allowing his annoyance to color his timbre.

Dillon smiled carefully at the doctor and commented, "You haven't eaten too much of that, Doc. Last night's ride take it out of ya?"

Adams wearily grinned. "A little bit, Matt. Haven't had to ride like that in a darned long while. I'm a little outta condition fer that sorta thing..."

The voice from behind him brought a grin to his lips as it cooed, "Just what exactly are you out of condition for, Curly?"

He smiled at her as he stood, Chester and Matt following suit. "Good morning, Kitty...I was just sayin' that ridin' hard across the prairie took the stuffin' out of me."

She playfully twisted an errant curl on his forehead. "Awww...these two young ruffians wore you out, huh?"

"As a matter of fact they did," he held a chair out for her to sit down, and then he plunked some money down on the table. "There, that oughta cover four breakfasts," he said as he picked up his hat.

Matt didn't completely mask the concern in his tone, "Where are you goin', Doc? You barely touched that breakfast you just put down money for."

"I'm bone weary, Matt. I'm headin' up to my office to get some sleep." He pulled his hat down sharply at a right angle. "I suggest that when you and Chester finish here, you do the same."

An inexplicable ripple of worry suddenly shivered through her, and Kitty quickly said, "Come by the Longbranch later, okay Doc?"

He smiled at her although she noticed it never reached his clouded eyes. "Sure, Kitty. I sure will..."

The three of them watched him walk out of the restaurant and as soon as he had closed the door behind himself, Kitty turned to Dillon.

"Doc sure didn't seem like himself...what's going'on?"

"You'd better order some breakfast first, and then I'll fill you in."

Kitty didn't like the dark apprehension she could see in his shimmering blue eyes, but without a word she picked up a menu, knowing he would tell her about it when he was good and ready, and not before. And then it struck her that maybe it was something she was better off not knowing.

* * *

By noon the heat had become positively oppressive along Front Street, and almost no one was out in it. Doc had finally fallen into an uncomfortable sleep, but with the overly wet heat and his disquieting reflections, his body was saturated in sweat, his bed linens soaked through under him. He moaned as he tossed in the face of fevered ghosts whom he thought were purged from his mind. And the shadows buried deep within the layers of his subconscious surfaced in his dreams with a vividness long lost to his conscious mind... 

_**June 27, 1862**_

_The percussive sounds of artillery fire continued to assault his ears, while the bleak humidity lay like a heavy blanket across the Chickahominy river, overworking his sweat glands, further drenching his bloodstained uniform. The acrid smells of gunpowder and human fluids mingled in what little air there was, and caused his gag reflex to kick-in if he thought about it too hard. But as he looked across the rows of wounded lying on the ground waiting for him, he knew there wasn't room for him to think about how uncomfortable he was, nor how sick the dead air made his stomach._

_He moved on to the next soldier in the row, only to wretch violently into the dirt when he pulled the blanket back discovering a quivering, bloody stump where a leg used to be. The boy, not more than 19 and not much younger than the surgeon tending him, suddenly regained consciousness and emitted a sound that was more animalistic than human. As the intensity of his painful wail grew, Adams found himself frozen in terror._

"_Doctor!" A young litter-bearer setting down yet another wounded body on a stretcher yelled at him. "Doctor Adams!"_

_It was enough to rouse him from his stupor, and quickly Adams bent down to the screaming boy. "Easy soldier, easy does it..." As quickly as he could, Adams filled a syringe with a third of a grain of morphine, and he injected it under the boy's sternum. After a minute or so, the young man stopped writhing and relaxed slightly. Adams looked over at the litter-bearer and nodded. "Thanks, private."_

_The young man nodded and headed back out onto the battlefield to collect more wounded men. Adams braced himself to once again look at the mutilated leg of the soldier lying under him, and he barely choked back the bile that tried to surface. Swallowing hard, the young doctor tied off the arteries with several tourniquets and prepared to cut off the jagged portion of bone and hanging flesh. He placed a board under the boy's leg, covered his mouth with an ether soaked cloth, and then picked up the scalpel with a shaking hand. He cut through flesh, muscle and ligaments until he had cleared a path to the bone. Once finished, he swallowed down more bile and picked up the capitol saw. With sharp, strong movements he cut off the remaining jagged bone, smoothing out the stump. He picked up a needle threaded with silk and began tying off the arteries when the booming voice from behind him made him start._

"_Adams! What are you doin' boy?"_

_Snapping to attention, Adams stood and stuttered, "I...I...I'm closing off the arteries, sir, like you showed me."_

_Dr. Charles E. Bell, standing at least a foot taller than the newly transferred doctor in front of him, ripped the needle from the young assistant surgeon's hand, and pulled the man back down toward the patient in a fluid motion. Bell began to tie off a small blood vessel, and looked at Adams over the rim of his glasses._

"_When you tie off a small one like that, Adams, use your left hand like a counterbalance as you tighten it with your right; you don't want it lettin' go after you've closed off the wound."_

"_Yes sir."_

_He handed his young assistant the needle. "Well come on, boy, get in here and lemme see you do one."_

"_Yes sir."_

_Bell watched with silent pride as the young man who had been with him barely a week continued to grow as a surgeon by leaps and bounds; but then, there was nothing like field work to season a young doctor quickly. He continued to observe for a moment as Adams picked up a rhythm to the motion and began moving at a much faster pace. And Bell smiled; this one was rare. If he could stomach the surgery he would have to do on the battlefield, and he survived the war, he would make an outstanding doctor. The boy had a feeling for it, Bell could sense that, and in that moment the surgeon knew he would sponsor the young man to study in the northeast should they both be delivered from the hell they were currently in._

_When Adams looked up to see what his mentor thought of his work, Bell was gone, off attending more wounded. He finished dressing the wound, and wiped his hands on a towel as he headed toward the next man. Before he knelt down to the lieutenant awaiting him, he glanced out at the sea of humanity which stretched on as far as his eye could discern; but a layered haze of smoke from the cannons, and the eerie stillness of death hovered just above the men, sending a shiver of fear colder than anything Galen Adams had ever known rushing through him..._

Doc started awake, bolting up from his sweat-drenched bed. His breathing was labored and the thick smell of acrid blood, artillery smoke and human waste filled his nostrils; it took him a full minute before he realized that the smells were just a leftover sense memory from the most vivid nightmare of his past that he ever had. Letting out a slow breath of air, Adams lie back down. It had seemed all too real. He closed his eyes in painful remembrance of all the deaths surrounding him during the war, and acknowledged that seeing Tom Haskett again, and being unable to save him, brought the horrors he had lived through during those years back into the forefront of his mind.

And it wasn't something that Galen Adams wanted to remember, much less, relive in his dreams. He glanced over at the small clock on his bedside table: ten minutes to one in the afternoon. It was long past time that he see to his rounds, despite the overwhelming heat and his lack of sleep. Adams rolled out of bed and was reminded that he was no longer a young man. And a sudden memory stopped him in mid-motion, causing him to reach carefully up to his own chest, where the scar above his heart remained: the sole marker of the bloodiest day of his life. He slammed his eyes shut against the discomfort that the raised line of flesh on his chest pulled up from his soul.

Sweat streaming down his back, Doc quickly arose, dressed, grabbed his bag and headed down the staircase toward the Longbranch; not only had he promised Kitty that he'd stop by, but he was suddenly in desperate need of a drink, if not her company.


	3. Chapter 3

Doc walked into the Longbranch, bag in hand, and spotted Kitty sitting at a table by herself, a pot of coffee next to her. She looked up as he approached, and smiled at him.

"Well hello, Doc."

"Afternoon, Kitty."

"Sit down." She watched him while he lowered himself into a chair, groaning as he did so. "You want a cup of coffee?"

He glared at her from underneath the brim of his hat. "Coffee? That's the best you can offer me on such a hot day?"

"You sort of looked like you needed a cup..."

"What I need is a drink."

She stared into his eyes for a moment, and seeing the disquiet in them, she frowned. Gently, Kitty pulled his hat off his head and set it in the chair next to her, then she turned toward the bar.

"Clem...can I have a cold beer over here for Doc?"

"Sure, Miss Kitty."

She turned back to the old doctor and leaned on the table, close to him. "Somethin' bothering you, Doc?"

Clem set the beer down in front of the old man, and he said, "Thanks, Clem." He took a sip and looked at Kitty. "It's this blasted heat that's botherin' me. It's just too darned hot to sleep, nor do just about anything else."

"Couldn't sleep, huh?" He shook his head. "I'll bet you're tired," she commented. He nodded slightly as he took a sip of beer, and she glanced over at his medical bag, then back at him. "But it looks like you're headin' out anyway..."

"Gotta make my rounds, Kitty." He winked at her then. "Just thought I'd come by here first and see you."

She grinned at him, recognizing the obvious compliment for what it was. "Flattery will get you nowhere with me today, handsome."

He took another sip of his beer and smiled. "It won't, huh?"

"Nope."

He set his glass down and wiped his mustache. "Gee, that's too bad, because I was gonna propose to ya, but I guess I'll have to save _that_ for another day."

Kitty laughed then, the sound of it lifting his burdened heart slightly. "Now Doc, you've been proposin' to me since I've known you, and where has it led? You haven't meant a word of it!"

"Now that's just not true! Why yer the prettiest little buttercup in all of Kansas!"

"Oh, now I know you're tired..." His smile dissipated slightly, and she ran her fingers softly through his hair, brushing back the damp curls that had fallen onto his beaded forehead. "You wanna talk about it, Curly?"

"Talk about what?"

She kept her timbre easy, "Haskett, Libby Prison..."

He took another sip of beer. "That marshal sure has loose lips..."

"Now Doc, he's just concerned about you. So's Chester..."

"Hmmph..." He grinned at her again, trying to retain the lightness of their previous banter. "And what about you? As my betrothed, ain't you worried that I've slipped my moorings?"

"No, Doc, I know better." She set her hand on top of his. "But I also know that everyone needs someone to talk to now and then, even you. You never even mentioned that you were a prisoner at Libby..."

He drained the last of his beer. "No, I didn't. Ain't nothin' to say about it, Kitty. It's ancient history, dead and buried."

He stood then, put his hat on his head and picked up his medical bag. She took a hold of his wrist.

"Doc, I'm here if you need me."

He smiled sweetly down at her, taking her chin lightly in his hand. "There's really nothin' to worry about, honey, but I appreciate the kindness." An impish grin suddenly twisted his lips as he tapped his index finger on the end of her nose. "And don't you forget that yer promised to me, so you just tell that big-mouthed marshal he's second-in-line!"

Kitty couldn't help but laugh out loud at that, shaking her head. "Oh all right Doc, I'll be sure to tell him that!" He turned to go, but her voice called him back once again. "Doc? Don't overdo it out there, it's just awful hot."

"I won't." He looked at the worry behind her crystal blue eyes, and added, "I'll stop by when I come back...that is if you're buyin' the beer."

"Anything you say, Curly."

He nodded at her, turned and walked out the batwing doors. Kitty watched him go, and her smile quickly faded. He seemed okay on the surface, but she knew him too well. The well-worn discourse that passed between them was an attempt at deflecting her attention from the disquiet she could see behind his saddened blue eyes, which had told her that he was tense and edgy, and not at all in the playful mood he was portraying. But it hadn't fooled her in the least. Matt was right: the accidental brush with his past in the form of Tom Haskett had set something in motion deep within him. She just hoped he'd talk about it with one of them before it had a chance to eat away at him. But Kitty Russell knew Doc Adams better than that; he'd rather suffer in silence than burden any of those closest to him with something that he would consider a very private, personal issue.

Still, she couldn't help but worry. She sighed and stared into her cup of coffee, which had gone cold.

* * *

"Well Mrs. Rainey," Doc said as he removed the stethoscope from his neck, setting it in his bag, "your boy's gonna be just fine with a little rest. His fever's down, and his chest sounds clear." 

The woman's green eyes twinkled with gratitude. "Thank you, Doc. Thank you so much." As he packed away his instruments she added, "Ab and me'll pay ya first of next month, Doc, you have my word."

He straightened up and smiled kindly at her, patting her arm gently. "Don't you worry about that, Mrs. Rainey, because, well, I'm not. You just be sure yer boy gets plenty of rest over the next few weeks, and see that he eats some good food." Doc put his hat on, slung his jacket over his arm and picked up his bag. "I'll be back next week to check on him."

Mrs. Rainey stopped Adams at the threshold of the door, tears shining in her eyes. "I don't know what folks in these parts'd do without you, Doc, you're a godsend!"

Embarrassed, Adams swiped a hand over his chin, and smiled. "You just remember what I said, and I'll see you next week."

Doc stepped out into the hot night, tossed his jacket and bag into the back of his buggy, removed the weight from the horse's bridle and climbed in. He slapped the reins gently across the bay's behind, making a clucking noise with his mouth. The horse began walking and Doc crossed his legs, holding the reins loosely in his left hand, settling in for the long ride back to Dodge. He looked up into the night sky, which was hazy and dark, the stars and moon covered by the humid clouds of late June, and sadly, he was reminded of another place less familiar...

_**June 28, 1862**_

_The long day had turned into a longer night, and then into the early morning hours of the 28th of June. Adams, his hands and arms stained with the blood of hundreds of men, finally sat down on a burnt out log. He couldn't remember having ever been so tired, hot and just plain worn out. The young doctor reached into his uniform pocket, extracting a pouch of tobacco and a rolling paper. He poured some of the dried leaves into the center of the small rectangular paper, rolled it, licked the side to seal it, then struck a match against the old log, and lit the cigarette. Adams took a long drag, and then wearily scrambled to his feet as he recognized the gait of Dr. Bell approaching._

"_At ease, doctor."_

"_Yes sir," Adams responded, returning his spent form to the log._

"_Mind if I join you?" The young doctor shook his head, so Bell sat his long frame down onto the log next to Adams. For a long while, the two men remained in a companionable silence, each residing with his own thoughts. Then, finally, Bell's soft voice pierced the eerie quiet of the field, "Been a long night..."_

"_Yes sir."_

_Bell's timbre was matter-of-fact, easy, "Lt. G. Adams, M.D., that's what your record says."_

"_Uh-huh."_

"_What's the 'G' stand for?"_

_Adams took a drag from his cigarette and said nothing. Bell glanced over at the young man but in the hazy darkness, the assistant surgeon's expression was hard to discern._

_Bell kept his voice neutral, "You don't like the army much, do you lieutenant?"_

"_No sir, I don't."_

_Bell nodded. "Too many wounded, not enough supplies, too few surgeons..."_

"_And cowards like McClellan sitting safely at Harrison's Landing, unnerved by the power of Lee, issuing no orders and allowing a lot of young boys to be maimed and killed." He took another drag of his smoke and stared hard into Bell's dark eyes. "No sir, I don't like this army much."_

"_Well boy, this is a surprise..."_

_Adams glared sharply at Bell. "You mean hearing the truth out here at Gaines' Mill, or the source?"_

_Bell smiled slightly; he liked this young man. "The front is always a place of truth, Dr. Adams, because it's a place of death; few men lie in the face of their own mortality." He paused and then added, "And I was surprised by the source. I wouldn't have pegged you as an upstart, young man."_

_Adams smiled then. "I'm afraid I've been a little too overwhelmed since I arrived to speak my mind, such as it is, sir."_

"_You were transferred from the 3rd Illinois Cavalry, weren't you?" Adams nodded, so Bell continued, "What was the army thinking moving a green assistant surgeon barely out of his diapers up to the front with the 5th cavalry?"_

_Adams growled at his superior, "I guess they were desperate for surgeons, captain. And I've been out of my diapers for a good, long while."_

_Bell was pleased that the young lieutenant was showing such grit, but he kept the grin threatening to appear on his face at bay, preserving the austerity of his position._

"_How old are you, boy?"_

_Adams' annoyance began to show in his tone,"I'm twenty-two, captain."_

"_That old, huh?" He had to force himself to keep a straight face as the young lieutenant glared with irritation. "And just how long have you been readin' medicine, my young upstart?"_

"_Since I was eighteen, sir."_

"_Where do you hail from, boy?"_

"_Ohio, originally."_

"_That's mostly farm country. You didn't wanna be a farmer?"_

"_Not particularly, no."_

_The glare that intensified on Adams' face was a silent source of amusement for Bell. "Your daddy was a farmer though, wasn't he?"_

"_Yeah, so?"_

"_He must've been some disappointed then when you--"_

_Adams threw his cigarette down and stood in anger. "--Now look, you might be my commanding officer and the chief surgeon of this outfit, but that doesn't give you the right to speak to me that way, and I won't have it."_

_Bell's voice remained even. "Why I actually believe you're ready to take me on, lieutenant."_

"_I'm not afraid of it, if that's what you're getting at."_

_Bell stood then, rising to his impressive height of close to 6'8" easily towering over Adams; but the young doctor didn't flinch. Bell laughed heartily then, and reached to pat Adams' shoulder, but the lieutenant reacted as though he was preparing for a punch._

_Bell frowned. "Easy son, I wouldn't raise my hand to you."_

_Adams' voice was defensive, "Why? Because of my size? Don't do me any favors, captain."_

_Bell set a gentle hand on the young man's shoulder then. "A man is only as small or as large as his heart makes him, son. Don't ever be fooled by any other measure of a man's magnitude."_

_Adams swallowed hard; he hadn't expected such a profound response, and he knew that he would never forget it. The pale blue eyes sparkled then in openness and admiration, and the captain squeezed the shoulder under his large hand._

"_Now, sit down awhile longer, boy. We ain't gonna have this quiet for long." Adams sat and looked in deep regard at Bell, as the man pulled out his silver pocketwatch and looked at the time, holding it slightly away from himself so that he could read the hands. "It's half past three."_

"_When do you think Jackson will attack?"_

_Bell shook his head as he put the timepiece away. "Sometime before dawn. The rebs have already inflicted a helluva lot of damage on us, and we're the only outfit left on this side of the river." He looked deeply into the pale eyes of the young man sitting next to him, and saw fear, but not cowardice. "If I was Porter, I'd retreat and take down the bridges behind me."_

"_But that would leave us stranded over here like some kind of sacrificial offering."_

"_Can you think of any other way to salvage this battle without losing the entire compliment of men?"_

_Adams shook his head slowly. "Not when you put it that way, no." He licked his lips, and then said, "I guess it's better to sacrifice a limb than to lose the entire body."_

_Bell smiled and pat the young man's knee. "Why did you want to become a doctor, boy?"_

_A wistful smile lit Adams' lips. "Never wanted to be nothin' else."_

"_A little farm boy in Ohio, and you never wanted to be anything but a doctor." Bell shook his head, smiling. "Doesn't really fit you know..."_

"_My grandfather," Adams blurted out, but then stopped himself, looking down at his bloodstained hands._

"_What about him?"_

"_He was a doctor."_

"_Spent some time with him when you were little didja?" Adams nodded, but Bell could see the deep emotion hovering just under the surface. "What'd your daddy think of that? Didn't he expect you to help him with the farm?"_

"_My father died when I was eleven, Dr. Bell, but I think he would have been fine with my decision in any case."_

"_How's that, boy?"_

_Adams grinned at him then. "The 'G' stands for Galen."_

_Bell laughed and put his arm around the young man's shoulder. "That's a fine reason son, but I think we'd better keep that our little secret." Adams looked at him curiously and the man continued, "I don't think a name like Galen will play too well with the enlisted men!"_

_Adams smiled. "No, I guess it won't."_

"_If I was you boy, I'd just go right on using my initial." Bell paused, then asked, "What do you plan on doin' should you survive this night and this war?"_

_Adams looked at him sharply, but answered the question. "I want to continue studying medicine. I'd like to study more about surgery."_

"_You've got the feeling for it, boy; I've seen that. And more importantly, you've got the heart, and that ain't somethin' anyone could teach you. A doctor's heart is special. Not every man who wants to help people can find the courage needed for doctoring."_

_The light blue eyes sparkled with vision. "I want to go where I'm needed and try and do the best I can."_

_Bell's dark eyes grew misty, but Adams couldn't see it in the darkness. "You will, Galen, because you already understand what it means to be a doctor."_

_Adams laughed at that. "Then how come my hands are still shakin' every time I have to cut off some poor fella's leg or arm, or dig a minie ball out of a man's chest?"_

_He pat the young man on the back. "Because you're new at it, you've got grape shot and minie balls whizzing past your head, and wounded men screaming in agony all around you; and the weather down here is at best tolerable and usually more like living in hell; and you know, boy, the fact that at any moment you might be blown to bits is probably hovering somewhere in the back of that mind of yours. It doesn't make for such a conducive place to learn surgery, does it?"_

"_No sir, I suppose not."_

_Bell pulled out his silver pocketwatch once more and looked at it. "Ten of four." He looked hard into the young man's eyes. "You carry a gun, lieutenant?"_

"_No sir, they were in short supply at the third, and a surgeon certainly doesn't need one..."_

"_This is a war, son, and it ain't nothin' but hell: everybody needs one." Bell pulled an old 1851 Navy Colt from the waistband of his pants, and held it out toward Adams, handle first. "Here boy, you're gonna need this."_

_Adams shook his head. "No sir. No. I didn't sign on to do no killin'...I'm here as a doctor, and that's all."_

"_Galen, in less than ten minutes all hell's gonna break loose around here, and I'm tellin' you boy, if you wanna live, you're gonna take this gun, and you're gonna use it."_

"_No sir, I am not."_

"_Have you ever fired a gun, boy?"_

"_A rifle, hunting fer prairie chickens, but that's all."_

_Bell let out a large breath of air. "Look, it's the same principle, only this thing doesn't have the same kind of range. But if the enemy's close enough, it'll explode a .36 caliber ball of percussion like you've never seen right through a man."_

"_I've seen the damage it inflicts, captain, and that's more than I want to know about it." Then it hit him. "You said all hell's gonna break loose in less than ten minutes...how could you know that?"_

"_I'm the Chief Surgeon of the 5th U.S. Cavalry Unit, son, I was given my marching orders yesterday afternoon." The young man frowned at him, so Bell continued, "I was told to get across the Chickahominy before 4 a.m. this morning, or be cutoff with the rest of the unit."_

_Adams' eyes grew wide. "If you knew that then why--"_

"_--I took an oath, Galen. I took an oath that says I need to go where people need my help, and to my mind that isn't safely behind the line at Harrison's Landing. Porter's going to withdraw and burn the bridges behind him, and whomever's left over here is gonna have to duke it out with the rebs."_

_And Galen Adams suddenly understood the true meaning of what it was to be a doctor, and to live - or die - by the Hippocratic Oath. He observed with glistening eyes as Bell once more pulled his timepiece from his pocket, checking the minutes._

"_Four minutes, boy. Are you just gonna stand there when they come and let them shoot you down like some kind of dog?"_

"_Nobody's gonna shoot an unarmed surgeon..."_

_Bell shook his head. "Boy, you spent too much time on your granddaddy's knee or under your mamma's skirts, and I ain't sure which..."_

_But before Adams could argue with him, the sky lit up with artillery fire like the young doctor had never seen, and the cry of renewed battle resounded across the blood-soaked earth. The Confederates were on the move, and so was the remainder of the 5th Cavalry; at least the ones who could run toward a bridge. The air carried the heavy scent of gunpowder as the shooting escalated, and within brief moments, the bridges across the Chickahominy went up in flames. Soldiers in gray continued to advance on the blue-coats who hadn't made it across, and soon the two surgeons were ducking behind anything they could find to keep their heads below the sailing minie balls. Bell unholstered and fired his Army 1860 and Adams stared, terrified, right into the advancing enemy line. The few boys in blue who were left alive weren't enough to hold out against the rebs, and Bell knew it was only a matter of time before he and Adams were either killed or captured._

_He spotted an advancing reb taking aim at Adams' head, and Bell fired, hitting the boy in the belly, crumpling him to the ground. But any advantage that his young charge may have had in that he hadn't been firing a weapon to give away his location, was now gone. Bell kept firing as he moved closer to Adams, and then he saw an officer pointing his gun at the boy. He squeezed the trigger and realized his luck had finally run out: he had no more ammunition, and no time to think, or Captain Charles E. Bell, M.D. might have remembered the Navy Colt in his pants. Instead, instinct kicked in and he threw himself at Adams, taking the shot in his chest, rather than his young assistant. The two men fell to the ground with a sickening thud. Adams wrestled the larger man off of him and sat up, pulling the man's big frame into his lap, causing the captain to cry out in agony from the movement. Adams ripped open the man's shirt and yanked the handkerchief from his own back pocket, attempting to quell the blood flow of the massive wound with it, but after a moment, Bell's hand covered his own._

"_It's no use, boy, and you know it. I'm done for..."_

_Adams tried to blink away the tears that stung his pale blue eyes, but they ran helplessly down his dirty, bloodstained cheeks. "I'm a doctor, I'm supposed to be able to help you..."_

"_Galen," the calm voice said, "just because you're a doctor doesn't mean you can save everyone you come across. Some folks are gonna die on you, and there just ain't nothin' you can do about that, son."_

"_But it should have been me. That bullet was meant for me," Adams cried, "not you...I can't live with that..."_

"_If you're truly a physician, you'll find the strength to bear it." He smiled into the light blue eyes that were filled with inconsolable hurt. "You've got the hands of a healer, Galen, and more importantly, the heart. Don't you disappoint me, boy; I'm counting on you to survive and take what you learn here and use it to become the best doctor you can." Bell pulled his silver pocketwatch out, and pressed it into Adams' hand. "It was my father's, you take it..."_

"_I'll see that it gets back to your family," the young doctor's voice was numb with an emotional pain he had felt once before, when he was 11 years old._

_Bell shook his head. "No. I want a doctor to have it; I want you to carry it...that way I'll always be with you to keep you from killin' all your patients, ya upstart..." Bell smiled slightly, but his dark eyes were growing dim, and he grabbed a hold of Adams' hand tightly. "Don't forget me, boy."_

_Galen's throat was so tight with emotion he could barely squeeze out the word, "Never."_

_And he was gone. Adams felt the cold hand in his slacken, and with a sharp pain in his heart, and the whine of bullets passing too close for comfort, he gently set the hand in his down on the man's belly, carefully lying the body down on the ground. With deliberate movements, and no thought to the violence raging all around him, Adams wiped the dirt from the older doctor's uniform and adjusted the man's collar. He brushed his fingers through the man's tangled hair, returning it to its normally neat appearance. Gently he removed the old 1860 pistol from Bell's right hand, sliding the weapon into its holster on the captain's belt, snapping the cover down on it. He picked up the limp right hand and placed it softly on top of Bell's left across his stomach, then carefully straightened the captain's legs out. Adams stared into the face of the big man whom he had barely known yet understood so well, and realized there would always be an empty space in his heart from the loss._

_He looked down at the silver pocketwatch that Bell had set in his hand, and a raging anger he had never experienced began to well up in him. Stoically, Adams slipped the watch into his pocket and before he even understood the implications of his actions, he had pulled the 1851 Navy Colt from where Bell had it tucked into the waistband of his pants. He stood, gripping the weapon tightly in his right hand, and slowly he turned to face the still advancing gray-coats, his eyes reflecting pale steel in the flash of the artillery light. He began walking right toward the enemy line, his arm rising out straight, cocking the gun with his thumb as he moved. And without taking aim, he pulled the trigger, firing at the men who had become his mortal enemies. He no longer looked at them as human beings, but as animals that needed killing; and justice would be served at his hand. Adams continued walking into the line, shooting at the soldiers, the .36 caliber percussion balls exploding on impact with some of the soldier's bodies, sending bits of blood and flesh flying through the smoky air. _

_And then Galen felt the sting of hot fire hit his chest. He glanced down at his filthy shirt and could see the wet crimson stain spreading across his breast with alarming speed. His legs collapsed under him and he stumbled to the ground, writhing in pain, his left hand clutching his burning chest. The last thought he had before he passed out was repulsion that instead of saving lives he had taken them. And Galen Adams was sure that there would be a special hell for a doctor who had forsaken his oath, and ruthlessly killed in a fit of rage._

Matt gently shook the old doctor's shoulder. "Doc? Doc, you okay?" Adams jolted awake and Dillon steadied him by gripping his arms. "Easy, Doc."

Adams straightened up in his buggy and realized he was in Dodge. "I must have fallen asleep..."

Matt smiled slightly. "Yeah, it's a good thing that old horse of yours knows his way home."

"Once he's headed toward a barn, I can't do anything with him anyway..."

Dillon helped the old man out of the buggy as Moss Grimmick emerged from the livery. "I'll put him up for ya, Doc. You look awful tired."

"Thanks Moss, thanks a bunch, it has been a long one."

Matt picked up Doc's jacket and bag from the back of the buggy. "Come on, ya old country croaker, I'll walk ya home."

Adams growled at the large man, "I don't need a nursemaid."

"That's good, because I'm not gonna become one."

"Smart aleck," Doc muttered as he plunged his hands into his pants pocket.

They walked along in silence all the way to Doc's office. Matt stepped inside the second-floor space, hanging the doctor's jacket up on the hat stand by the door, then setting the medical bag on the desk. Adams looked into the concerned blue eyes, and felt guilty, knowing he was the cause of it.

"You wanna little shot of whiskey, Matt?"

"Sure, Doc, that'd go good about now."

Dillon sat down, tossing his hat onto Doc's exam table while the surgeon opened a cabinet, pulling out two glasses and a bottle. He poured a shot of whiskey into each glass, and then handed one to Matt on his way to his desk chair. Doc sat down, groaning slightly as he did so. Matt took a sip of whiskey and waited. After a few minutes, Doc spoke.

"Look Matt, I know you're a little worried, but there's no need. What happened at Libby Prison was a long time ago, and well, I've lived with it fer a lot of years. Ain't nothin' about it I haven't had a lot of time to think on before now."

Dillon looked into the steely blue eyes across from him and saw them set in stone. "You've just seemed a bit...distracted since Haskett brought it up."

"I'll admit that it blind-sided me a little, but it ain't nothin' fer you to be concerned about, and I mean that."

Matt set his glass down, stood and put his hat on his head. "Okay, I'm not gonna push you, Doc." Adams looked down into his whiskey, and Dillon walked over to him, laying his big hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "If you need me, you know where I am."

The doctor nodded, but couldn't meet the shimmering blue eyes he could feel on him. Dillon went to the door and opened it.

"Matt?"

"Yeah, Doc?"

"Thanks."

"You just remember what I said."

"Good night, Matt."

"'Night, Doc."

Dillon closed the door behind him, but it didn't shut out the worry in his heart. He looked across the street at the Longbranch and saw the light on in her room. A slight smile lit his lips: perhaps one more nightcap would help him relax...


	4. Chapter 4

She wasn't expecting the soft knock on her door so late.

"Who is it?" She demanded.

"It's me..."

A small smile lit her lips and she opened the door. "Well, this is a surprise..."

Matt took his hat off, turning it around in his hands. "Evenin' Kitty. Can I come in?"

She opened the door widely. "Sure." Dillon stepped into the room, and Kitty closed the door behind him. She watched him nervously playing with his hat. "Somethin' on your mind, Matt?"

He licked his lips and looked deeply into her crystal blue eyes. "Is it too late for a nightcap?"

"Course not, sit down."

Matt tossed his hat on a stool in the corner and sat in a chair by the small table in the center of her room. Kitty poured two small brandies and handed him one. She touched her glass to his, and they both took a long, slow sip from their snifters. She eyed him curiously for a moment, then sat down next to him, holding her brandy with both hands. It wasn't hard to figure out what he was thinking on.

"You're worried," she said softly.

Matt took another sip of his brandy. "Yeah, I am."

She observed his uncomfortable silence for a minute or so then said, "So'm I."

Dillon allowed some of his concern to color his timbre, "Everything I've ever heard about the indecency at Libby tells me no one would've made it out of there unscarred, Kitty - especially not a man like Doc."

Kitty's expressive eyes betrayed her deep feelings. "Underneath that gruff exterior lies one of the softest hearts in the world, it's true."

Dillon nodded, letting out a long sigh of air. "No tellin' how hard it might be on him." He took another long drink from his glass. "But there's no pushin' him into talkin' about it."

"No, no there isn't. Doc'd sooner take a bullet than admit a weakness for somethin' dredged up from his past." And they both recognized that there was little they could do to help the man they both cared so much for; Kitty waited for Matt to change the subject, but Dillon didn't say anything for a long time. She looked at him from under her long eyelashes. "Is that what you dropped by for?"

He could hear the easiness of her tone and he smiled seductively, but then said, "Well, there was the brandy..."

She swatted his arm playfully. "Honestly..."

Matt smiled at her and leaned over toward her chair, gently kissing her lips. Standing, Kitty took the brandy from his hand, set it on the table and pulled him from his chair. She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him deeply, eliciting a moan of pleasure from him. He pulled her tightly into him and covered her mouth with his. After a few minutes, Kitty gently broke away, took him by the hand, and silently led him to the bed.

Neither of them noticed the lamplight still streaming out from the second floor bedroom across the street, nor the shadow of the occupant fretfully pacing in it.

* * *

He couldn't shake the vivid images of death from his mind, nor the sick feeling from his belly. He ran a hand through his thick, curly hair, letting out a long sigh of air as he did so, but it didn't do anything to relieve the tension that filled him. He drank a couple of shots of whiskey after Matt left, but that hadn't relaxed him into sleep anymore than his incessant pacing was helping him to calm down. Doc sat on his bed again, gripping the sheets in his hands as the gruesome visuals continued to plague his mind. The old doctor slammed his eyes shut against the bombardment of the past; but it did nothing to stop it. 

Adams grabbed his head with both hands, rocking slightly on the edge of his bed. "Please, God, I don't want to remember this. I don't want to relive any part of this..."

But the deluge unleashed by his subconscious mind would not let him rest. Feeling as if he might collapse from the turmoil in his head, Doc stumbled into his office and over to the locked cabinet on the far wall. He fumbled in the dark to find his keys, which he normally kept under a book on the shelves nearby, but he couldn't locate them. Desperate to end the pounding in his head and the thundering of 30-year old ghosts, Adams smashed one of the glass panes of the cabinet with his hand, reached in and pulled out a bottle of sleeping pills. Unaware of the blood dripping from his right hand, he poured three white pills into it and tossed them back into his throat in a smooth motion, not bothering to get a glass of water to wash them down. He sank to the floor next to the cabinet, his back against the wall, shivering. After several minutes, the old man felt his heartbeat begin to slow down in response to the pills, and he leaned his head back against the wall, letting out a long sigh of air.

He closed his eyes as the drug began to envelope him in its arms, unprepared for the nightmares that waited to strangle him with their intensity...

_**August 1862**_

_He heard the deep moan from far away without realizing it had uttered from his own dry, chapped lips. After another minute, he swallowed, feeling a raw, parched throat, and as he became more aware, he began to panic when he couldn't force his eyes to open, nor his neck to move. A nearby assistant surgeon saw the young man fighting consciousness and called to his superior._

"_Dr. Wilkins!"_

_An older man with glasses on his face and a stethoscope around his neck walked over to the younger man. "What is it, Kramer?"_

"_The young lieutenant sir, he's coming around..."_

"_Well, I'll be." Wilkins bent down over Adams, holding the stethoscope to the young man's chest, listening intently. "Come on boy," he said softly, "time to dig your head out of the mud." Adams fought his system for consciousness, and kept moving toward the soft, southern voice cooing to him. "Let's go, little scrap, rise and shine."_

_Adams finally forced his eyes open and the brightness of the surrounding light made him squint. He groaned heavy and low, and felt a weight sit next to him. A soft hand brushed his forehead._

"_Easy, lieutenant..."_

_Dread filled him as he recognized the Confederate uniform on the man sitting next to him, and with no strength in him at all, Adams tried to move. The old man smiled at him, gently holding the young man's shoulders in his hands._

"_I wouldn't try to do that for now, lieutenant, you might pull out these stitches." Adams began coughing up something heavy from his lungs, and the gentle southerner, who was obviously a doctor, held a cloth at his mouth with one hand and carefully pressed on his chest wound with the other. "It's all right, little scrap, you're all right, just cough it up and get it out..." _

_After a few more large coughs, his lungs felt clear, and he swallowed hard. The old man reached for a glass of water on a nearby table and lifting Adams' head with his other hand, poured a little into his mouth. Galen nodded in thanks at him as the man gently set his neck back on the pillow._

"_My name is Dr. Wilkins, lieutenant, and as I'm sure you've surmised by now, I am a Confederate officer, and Chief Surgeon at Libby Prison hospital. You were captured at Gaines' Mill, and while you might consider that tremendously bad luck, consider the alternative: at least you're still alive." He set the glass down on the table, and looked into the weary blue eyes. "You were brought in from the field several weeks ago, and frankly, no one thought you'd pull through. You took a minie ball in the chest, and it nicked your heart." The old man smiled sincerely then as he ran a hand over his white mustache. "I'm not really sure why you're still alive boy, except that you had a rather skillful surgeon, me, and you're one helluva scrappy fighter." Adams continued to stare at the man, saying nothing, so Wilkins continued, "I know you're a lieutenant from the uniform we took off of you, but that's all I know." The young man remained silent and Wilkins sighed. "We can't sign you in proper or notify the blue coats if we don't have your name, son, and any kin you might have will probably think you're dead." Galen blinked at him slightly, and his jaw tensed, but he said nothing. "Well, I guess I'm just gonna have to keep calling you 'little scrap' for now then, until you decide to tell me different." He pat the young man softly on the arm. "And you're gonna be with me for awhile, lieutenant, because that chest of yours is a long way from bein' healed. I hope you have as strong a constitution as I think you do, because in this room, you're gonna see it all, and some of it's mighty unpleasant."_

_Wilkins stood, taking one more look at the young man that no one thought would live, and then he walked through the row of cots and bodies on the floor, disappearing somewhere down the long room. Adams let out a breath of air but then started when he felt weight on his cot again. It was the assistant he had seen hovering in the background the whole time Wilkins was talking to him; but this man was wearing a ragged blue uniform. He leaned close as though he was examining Adams._

"_Relax, lieutenant. I'm Sergeant Kramer, a litter-bearer for the seventh cavalry, but the gray-coats are so desperate with all the wounded, that I'm an assistant surgeon here at Libby. Word around the floor is that **you** really **are** a surgeon. Any truth to it?" Adams stared at the man, remaining silent. "Look, lieutenant, I'm on the level. If you are a real sawbones, your best shot at survival is gettin' in good with Wilkins and workin' here. We get better vittles than most of the prisoners..." He looked into the wall of blue distrust and said, "You're in a better spot than most because Wilkins has taken an interest in you. Hell, you might even get fed some meat. They say it's around here, but we don't never see it. You better get some shuteye, lieutenant, that ol' reb wasn't funnin' you about that minie ball you took. You ain't outta the woods yet." _

_The man started away, but Adams grabbed his sleeve, his voice barely audible from lack of use and strength. "I had a watch..."_

"_What?"_

"_When I fell, there was a silver watch in my pocket." Kramer looked at him as if he was insane, so he added, "It was a family heirloom...important to me."_

"_I'm sorry, lieutenant, but whatever they find on prisoners, the gray-coats take. They tell ya you're gonna get it back when this whole thing's over, but they're lyin'. I'm sure they take it all and sell it."_

_Galen nodded sadly at him, then held out his weak hand and said, "Adams. I'm Lieutenant G. Adams, M.D."_

"_You **are** a surgeon..." Adams nodded. "Well, it's up to you whether or not you talk to Wilkins, but our boys in blue could sure use another real doc around here. Thems of us who were litter-bearers don't know that much to really do nuthin'." Galen's eyes fluttered slightly, and Kramer pat him softly. "Get some sleep, we'll talk later..."_

_Adams dropped off into a deep slumber, only to be jostled awake a few hours later by the screaming from the patient writhing on the cot next to him. Galen's pale blue eyes sprang open, and he forced his head to turn to his left. A young black man of maybe 16 was bellowing in agony, clutching his right arm. Adams stared hard at the arm, and could see that it was horribly infected. He tried to move, to get off his cot, and help the young soldier, but Adams couldn't even sit up. A moment later, a gray-coat he hadn't seen before walked over to the youth, putting his hands on his hips._

"_How many times do I have to tell you, boy, to quit your bellerin' ...your arm ain't hurtin' you that bad."_

"_Please sir, please," the young soldier cried, "it feels like fire..."_

_Changing a dressing not far away, Kramer quietly observed the commotion, but fearing retribution, remained passive._

_The gray-coat leaned over the black boy slightly and scrunched his nose up as the smell of the wound floated up to him. "It's nothin' to worry about, boy."_

"_It's gas-gangrene," Adams said matter-of-factly, "if that arm don't come off, that young man's gonna die."_

_The gray-coat surgeon turned quickly on Adams. "Ain't nobody asked you nuthin', little Lord Fauntleroy. If you know what's good for you, you'll just lie there and be quiet like you been doin' since you got here. Ain't nobody but Wilkins cared whether you lived or died..."_

_But Adams didn't let it go. "That arm's gotta come off or he's gonna die..."_

_Galen tried to push himself up, but the Confederate officer quickly shoved him down, leaning hard on his chest wound, causing Adams to catch his breath in distress. The man grabbed the young union soldier's face, hard, with his fingers. _

"_Now I ain't tellin' you again to keep your mouth shut. You might be Wilkins' pet undertaking, but the rest of us know you're just a stinkin' blue-coat like all the others in here. You take up arms agin' other white men for the cause of this runaway slave lyin' here, it makes you no better'n he is, and if you so much as look at me funny, you won't draw another breath, understand?"_

_Adams couldn't even nod, he couldn't breathe, the pain in his chest was becoming unbearable. Finally the gray-coat moved off of him, and Galen whimpered quietly in misery. The man smiled then, and Adams felt his blood run cold. The gray-coat picked up a capitol saw from a nearby table, and walked over to the young black soldier. He glanced back at Adams to make sure he was watching, and realizing what the man was going to do, Galen tried to muster sound in his throat, but couldn't find any strength._

"_You want me to take off his arm, Lord Fauntleroy? So I shall..."_

_Unseen by any onlookers, Kramer quickly and quietly ran from the room, in search of the only man who could stop the madness which was in motion._

_The black union soldier began to wail in terror, and as the saw met his flesh, it unleashed an unearthly sound from its victim._

_Finding his voice, Adams screamed, "No!"_

_Galen tried to stop the man, but only succeeded in rolling off his cot, hitting the floor, and having the wind knocked out of him. He lie there gasping for air, bits of flesh and blood from the screaming soldier's arm hitting his face and neck, and Adams' heart plummeted in utter despair. Tears streamed down the lieutenant's cheeks, his powerlessness to save the poor boy from the reb's hands overwhelming him, stripping him of any dignity he might have retained._

"_What in hell are you doing, Johnson?" Wilkins' voice roared from several feet away._

_Dr. Johnson turned, his face paling several shades. "Gas-gangrene, Dr. Wilkins, I'm removing the limb."_

"_Without ether or tourniquets?" Wilkins stepped in, removed the saw from Johnson's hands, and backhanded the man across the face with his fist. "I'll have your stripes for this, Johnson, your scalpel, and quite possibly your testicles, you miserable excuse for a human being." The man stared at him for a moment, frozen in terror, and Wilkins bellowed, "Get out. Now!"_

_Johnson went quickly from the room, and Wilkins turned to the young black soldier, realizing the boy had bled to death. His head dropped slightly, and his voice turned soft. "Kramer...take care of him, will you?"_

"_Yes, Dr. Wilkins."_

_As Wilkins turned, he saw Adams on the floor and he growled, "Damn it..." _

_Galen felt his body being lifted and gently set down again on the mattress of the cot. He groaned in pain from the movement, and then felt his face being cleaned with a wet cloth._

"_Kramer!"_

"_Yes, Dr. Wilkins?"_

"_Why was this man on the floor?"_

"_I...I..."_

_Wilkins looked at the young man. "Kramer, I want to know how this man wound up on the floor."_

"_He tried to stop him, Dr. Wilkins. He tried to stop Dr. Johnson."_

"_Tried to stop--but this man can barely open his eyes, he couldn't have had the strength to..." But as he looked at Kramer's face, he could see it was true. He returned his attention to Adams and finished cleaning the blood from the young man's neck, then he ripped open the dressing on the wound and growled with displeasure and the torn stitches. His timbre softened, "Oh little scrap...you're just determined to die in this war, aren't you..." Wilkins looked over at Kramer. "Sergeant, when you're finished there, I'll need some cotton thread, a clean needle, and some morphine."_

_Kramer glanced over at the pale lieutenant shivering on the cot. "Stitches rip open?"_

"_Yeah. Must've happened when he fell."_

"_Or when Johnson slammed down on top of him, pressin' on that wound."_

_Wilkins looked sharply at Kramer, and the sergeant saw the man's eyes turn black in anger, but the chief surgeon said nothing. He looked back at Adams, and to his surprise, the wary pale eyes were looking up at him; Wilkins was beginning to see that nothing about this young man should surprise him. For a long moment, the two men stared at each other._

_Adams' voice was raspy when he finally spoke, "The boy?"_

_Wilkins shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, lieutenant, he didn't make it."_

_Tears welled up in Adams' eyes and he looked away, embarrassed. Wilkins pat the young man's shoulder and realized he was shivering. _

_Wilkins pulled the blanket from the dead soldier's bunk and softly covered Adams with it._

"_Thanks..."_

_The doctor gently probed Adams' chest, causing him to grimace. "Hurts pretty bad, huh?"_

"_Yeah," Adams winced._

_Kramer returned then, handing Wilkins a loaded syringe, and a needle with cotton thread. "Thanks, sergeant."_

"_Yes, sir." Kramer peered over Wilkins' shoulder at Adams. "He gonna be okay, doctor?"_

"_Soon as I take care of him, yes." He looked into the eyes drenched with pain and he said, "Just hang on, little scrap, I'm gonna give you some morphine, and you'll feel better in a minute."_

_Wilkins plunged the syringe under Adams' sternum, the young man grunting from pain. Wilkins gently rubbed the area just under the breastbone, taking out the sting and helping to move the morphine quickly out into his bloodstream. Adams let out a sigh of relief a few moments later, and Wilkins began the task of putting in new stitches._

_Adams' voice was weak, "You don't care, do you?"_

_Wilkins' eyes flicked up to meet the sea of pale blue holding him, but his hands kept working. "About what?"_

"_That I'm a union soldier."_

"_Not really, no." He looked back down at the wound. "You're injured and you need my help; that can be my only lookout."_

_Adams' voice was becoming sleepy, "Too bad all the doctors here don't observe the Hippocratic oath..."_

_Wilkins' eyes bore into the young man. "That morphine seems to have loosened your tongue, little scrap."_

"_That's **Dr.** Little Scrap to you..." Adams muttered before succumbing to the pull of the drug._

_Wilkins smiled fondly at the young face of the unconscious union surgeon. "No, Dr. Little Scrap, nothin' about you's gonna surprise me from here on out, not one little bit," he whispered. "I just wish I could spare you from what's to come in this confounded war," the man's eyes took on a far-away look and his voice grew sullen, "but at best it'll steal your youth, and at worst your humanity; so far I haven't been able to save a blessed thing from it. Not one, blessed thing..."  
_


	5. Chapter 5

Chester stretched his arms over his head and then scratched the top of it with his hand, yawning. There was no sign of Dillon in the office, and Goode wondered where the marshal would have disappeared to so early in the morning. He loaded the belly of the stove with kindling and then put coffee, water and egg shells in the pot, setting it on the heat.

"She's got them big eyes," Chester sang, "she's got them bi-ig eyes, oh, she's got them big eyes, just like her eyes of brown." He heard a sound on the boardwalk, and thinking it was either Doc or Dillon, Chester opened the door, smiling. "Well it's about time--" His face fell as he realized it was Ma Smalley. "Oh...good mornin', Mrs. Smalley."

The tiny woman's body was tense with agitation. "Chester, is the marshal here?"

"Well no ma'am, no he ain't."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know ma'am, I ain't seen him yet this mornin'..." Mrs. Smalley's frown deepened, and realizing that something was wrong, Goode put a calming hand on the old woman's arm. "What is it, Mrs. Smalley, what's the matter?"

"Chester...Oh Chester, it's Doc."

Alarm fired the dark brown eyes. "Doc? What happened to Doc?"

"He's...well there's somethin' bad wrong with him, Chester. Come up to Doc's with me and I'll show you..."

Goode reached around the still open entrance of the jail, grabbed his hat, and closed the door, quickly following Ma Smalley down the boardwalk and up the stairs to Doc's office. He held the door open for her and she walked over to the far wall and knelt down. Chester stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. His stomach dropped to his knees when he saw that Ma Smalley was kneeling next to Doc who was sitting on the floor next to a cabinet, his head leaning back against the wall. The old doctor's eyes were open, but he didn't seem aware of anything around him.

"Doc?" The old woman said. "Doc Adams? Can you hear me?" He didn't react at all to the sound of her voice, and she turned toward the stunned assistant of the town marshal. "You see, Chester? There's something terrible wrong with him."

Goode knelt next to her, his bad leg sticking out straight to the side. He leaned in and gently touched Doc's arm. "Doc? Doc, it's Chester. Are ya...are ya all right, Doc?" But the old man didn't react to his friend any more than he had to Ma Smalley. Chester swallowed hard and turned to the old woman. "Mrs. Smalley, can ya go get Miss Kitty for me?"

Smalley stood. "I'll go right away. Don't leave him, Chester."

Goode had to fight the fearful tears he felt welling up in his dark brown eyes, and his voice shook slightly. "I won't leave him for nothin'..."

Ma left quickly, and Chester examined the doctor's head to see if there was any sign of an injury, but there wasn't. He looked down then and noticed the blood on Doc's right hand. He gently lifted the strong hand into his own.

"What happened to ya, Doc? How...how'dja cut your hand like this?" Goode's stomach churned with worry as he set the man's hand down and stood. "I'll get a cloth or somethin' and clean that for ya, Doc. Ya don't want it gettin' infected or nothin'..."

Goode stepped closer to the cabinet next to Adams and heard glass crunch under his boot. He looked down at the floor and saw the broken glass shards and his gaze moved up to the smashed pane. He glanced back at Doc's hand and he realized how it came to be cut, but he didn't understand why. He reached in through the broken pane and pulled out the bottle labeled alcohol, and a clean cloth that was next to it. Once again kneeling next to Adams, Chester poured the disinfectant into the rag, and taking Doc's injured hand in his own, carefully cleaned it. But Adams didn't make a sound, nor did he seem to realize that Chester was there with him.

"I know this probably stings a little, Doc, but I've heard you say enough times that a wound has ta be cleaned or an infection could..." But Chester couldn't finish the thought, the tears in his eyes threatening to pour down his cheeks. "Doc, please say somethin'...just...just tell me what to do, Doc, and I'll do it."

But Doc Adams continued to silently stare at nothing.

* * *

Matt paced the length of the office, stopping briefly to exchange a concerned look with Chester who was leaning against the stove, sipping at a cup of cold coffee. The two men wordlessly glanced over at the old doctor who was lying on the exam table where he had lain for more than an hour. Sitting in a chair next to the table, Kitty brushed the wet cloth gently over Doc's forehead, although his eyes showed no recognition as he blankly stared up at the ceiling. 

Dillon's voice sounded terribly unsure as he uttered her name, "Kitty?"

"I'm scared, Matt. It doesn't look like there's a thing wrong with him other than the cut on his hand, but he isn't coming out of it."

"I ain't never seen nothin' like this, Mr. Dillon," Chester said. "Whaddya think's wrong with him?"

Dillon shook his head. "I don't know, Chester. Except..."

"Except what, Matt," Kitty prompted.

"After the Apache Wars, I saw some cavalrymen who were sort of...shut down like this."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, they just stared at nothing, didn't talk, and they didn't seem to be aware of anything around them. The army doctors said the condition was brought on by the trauma of the fighting and the intensity of the gruesome sights they were exposed to..."

Her eyes met his. "Like Doc during the war, maybe?"

"Yeah...but Doc's war experience was a long time ago. These soldiers were sick right after the Indian wars."

"But you said yourself, Matt, that Libby was an awful place and a man like Doc wouldn't fare too well..."

Chester set his mug down. "Aw Mr. Dillon, Doc ain't that fragile...matter of fact, he's pretty tough when it comes right down to it."

"Yes he's strong, Chester, but Doc also puts a lot of pressure on himself to take care of everyone around him; and I'm guessing he lost a lot of patients during the war."

Kitty's lips pressed into a straight line. "And you think he never came to terms with the guilt he feels..."

"That's right, and losing Haskett the other day brought it all back," Dillon said. "I think it's just been too much for him."

Chester limped closer to the table. "Whut can we do for him, Mr. Dillon?"

"I don't know." Dillon glanced at Kitty, and the unrepressed fear in his eyes sent a lump into her throat. "I think it might be best for me to send a telegram to that teaching hospital Doc always visits back East. Maybe they know of a doctor who can help him."

Kitty nodded and turned her attention back to the older man lying on the exam table. She pulled the cloth off of his head and stroked her hand over his forehead. "It just isn't fair that someone who's done nothing but help people his whole life has to suffer for it."

Matt's lips pursed together. "No, Kitty, it isn't."

Chester stepped closer to the table and laid his hand over the old doctor's. "Don't you fret none, Doc, we'll take care of you, and we won't let nothin' happen to you..."

Goode's voice broke with emotion, causing Matt and Kitty to exchange a worried look. Dillon softly squeezed Chester's shoulder.

"Come on, Chester, why don't we go send that telegram?"

Goode nodded, and Matt moved him toward the door, turning to look at Kitty. "If anything changes..."

"You'll be the first to know."

He nodded and headed out the door with Chester. Kitty ran her fingers soothingly through Doc's soft curls. "I'm so afraid of where you've gone inside that head of yours, handsome, and I don't know how to help you find your way back."

Kitty leaned her head down on his chest, tears of apprehension slowly dripping down her face and onto his shirt. But even the grief of someone so dear to him wasn't enough to jolt him from the hell in which he was currently residing...

_**

* * *

October 1862**_

_Adams pulled with all his might to loosen the bullet lodged deeply in the soldier's abdomen, but it wouldn't budge. "Damnit!"_

_Wilkins looked up from the chest wound he was up to his elbows in. "Problem, Adams?"_

_Galen didn't dare glance up as he tried with restrained strength to pull out the lead. "No...yes..._

_oh damn..."_

_Adams threw the forceps into a basin and grabbed several clamps, quickly attaching them to bleeding vessels._

_Wilkins kept his voice even, "Clipped a few veins, doctor?"_

_He couldn't keep the annoyance and self-recrimination from his timbre, "Yes...the bullet just won't let go, and I hit a few trying to yank it out."_

_The chief surgeon walked over to the table where his young assistant was working, and he looked at the wound, then up at his charge. "Get your forceps." Adams hesitated only briefly and the old man's voice barked, "Now, Adams, your patient doesn't have time for you to think about it."_

"_Yes, sir."_

_Adams plunged the forceps into the wound with a steady hand, and Wilkins looked on from just behind Galen's left shoulder. Once the young surgeon had the bullet gripped in the forceps, the older man spoke._

"_Okay, now jiggle it a little."_

"_What?"_

"_You heard me, jiggle it, just a little."_

"_But what if I lose my grip on it, and it--"_

"_--Who's the chief surgeon here, boy?"_

_Adams swallowed hard but did as he was told, albeit very carefully. The piece of lead finally let go of the tissue, and Wilkins remained silent as the talented young man steadily extracted the bullet, dumping it in the basin nearby._

"_That a boy, little scrap, I'll make a surgeon out of you yet."_ _Adams smiled, although the nickname continued to grate slightly on his nerves. "Just one thing, son," Wilkins continued as he reached around Adams' right side, putting his hand on top of his assistant's which was still holding the instrument. "Try adjusting your grip like this," he gently moved the thick fingers a fraction up on the forceps. "You'll find that the instrument won't fight you so much when you're in a tight spot like that." He shook the hand under his slightly. "And loosen your grasp a tad, boy, and your shoulder won't ache so much at night after a long day of surgery."_

_Adams looked at him sharply. "How did you know that my--" But he stopped himself in mid-sentence as the impish grin spread across his mentor's lips. "Experience is everything, isn't it?"_

"_It's not everything, doctor, but it helps. And if I can guide you along, then I will have done my job."_

_Wilkins moved off, leaving Adams staring in his wake, wondering what the older man had meant by "his job." _

_

* * *

The bottom of his shoes were sticky from the blood that covered the floor of the room they used to treat the incoming wounded prisoners, and the ache in his neck from constantly angling his head down to perform surgery was so bad it was making him nauseous. He smiled slightly at the irony in that: all the blood, guts, dead bodies, mutilated and maimed men that had passed in front of him in the past 24 hours, and it was the nagging ache in his neck that was upsetting his belly. He sat down on a chair while there was a lull in the wounded, and leaned his elbows on his knees, his head hanging loosely down, trying to relax his muscles. The warm hand that squeezed his neck a moment later startled him._

"_Easy, little scrap, you're just a ball of nerve endings here..." _

_Adams grimaced as his mentor massaged the taut ligaments in his neck, moving down to his right shoulder, which was still contracted from gripping his surgical instruments too tightly in his hand. Wilkins rubbed the tension out for a minute, then pat his assistant's shoulder lightly. _

"_You need to learn to stay relaxed and calm during surgery, Adams, it doesn't help you or your patients when you tense up."_

"_It seems like I have a lot to learn all the way around, doesn't it?"_

_Wilkins studied the troubled countenance of the young man for a moment before responding. "We all do when we're starting out," he said carefully._

_And Adams felt immediate remorse for having taken out his cranky tiredness on a man who had been nothing but kind to him in a place where kindness was as rare as the days were long. "I'm sorry, Dr. Wilkins, I didn't mean to sound ungrateful for everything you've done for me."_

_The older man smiled. "Adams, you don't owe thanks to anyone in this hell for anything, least of all me. You're a prisoner of war; I don't think either of us has ever forgotten that fact."_

"_Yeah, but you didn't put me here."_

"_No, but the army I serve did, and that makes me at least a little bit responsible, doesn't it."_

_Adams couldn't deny it, but it didn't make him feel good to hurt a man who was decent, kind and caring. "You're here as a doctor, nothing else; if you hadn't been, I'd be dead."_

_Wilkins laughed softly. "We're both about as tired as it gets, aren't we?"_

"_I guess so."_

_The confederate doctor observed Adams for a moment, and realized the boy looked wrung out and pale. Putting his stethoscope in his ears, he walked over to the young man. He held the diaphragm bell against Adams' back, pressing his left hand gently against the young man's chest._

"_What are you doin'?"_

"_Be quiet."_

"_My chest has healed fine, I don't need--"_

"_--Hush up." Wilkins listened intently and frowned a little. He put the bell against Galen's chest then, and didn't like what he heard. He pulled the earpieces free, letting them rest around his neck. "Your heart's having to work overtime because your body's still trying to make up for all the blood you lost, and for the trauma to the muscle. It's been barely six weeks since you were first able to even get out of bed, and you've just done 24 straight hours of surgery." The white-haired doctor shook his head. "I want you to get some rest, Adams, and it isn't up for discussion."_

"_But what about all the rest of the wounded?"_

"_I can handle what's left."_

_Adams' pale eyes stared hard into the man's face. "Are you sure?"_

_Wilkins cuffed his young assistant behind the neck as Adams stood. "Listen ya young whelp, I'm not gonna fall apart because my little scrappy prodigy's gettin' some sleep." He reached into the pocket of his uniform jacket which was hanging off the back of a chair, and he pulled out a small package, handing it to Adams. "It ain't much, but I brought you some jerky. You need the iron from the meat, and I know you ain't gettin' any here. Now go on to bed, boy."_

_The young man stood there, holding the wrapped jerky in his hand, his wide blue eyes staring into the face of a man who had continually demonstrated a heart of gold beneath his gray uniform. _

"_Go on, get outta here!" Wilkins growled._

_Adams nodded, and left the room, walking through the long ward of cots on his way to the small room he shared with the other union medical assistants. He glanced at the rows of wounded, and had to suppress a shiver; there were so many of them, and he knew from experience that most of them would die, if not from their injuries, from infection, malnutrition, abuse or just from despair. Frustration welled up in him as he moved through the room: no matter how much he learned from Dr. Wilkins, and no matter how hard he worked to become a good surgeon, he couldn't save them all. And the wisdom of Dr. Bell sprang to his mind: "Just because you're a doctor doesn't mean you can save everyone you come across."_

_The reality of the words cut more deeply than Adams could have realized, and his eyes misted over slightly._

_He walked through a door and past a few guards who simply glared at him, and then he opened the door into the quarters he shared with fifteen other medical assistants, closing it behind him. Most of the former litter-bearers and the two other doctors were asleep on their blankets on the floor. Adams quietly made his way past most of them to the one empty spot that had no blanket. He wearily stretched out on the hard, wooden floor, unable to get comfortable._

"_Lieutenant? Lieutenant, is that you?" A young voice whispered._

_Adams rolled onto his left side and smiled at the simple but well-meaning boy staring at him. "Yeah, Jimmy, it's me."_

"_Where ya been, lieutenant? I ain't seen ya in awhile."_

"_In surgery, Jimmy. A lot of wounded men arrived, and Dr. Wilkins and I had our hands full."_

"_Oh."_

"_Somethin' the matter?"_

"_No," he answered, "it's just that it's been kinda cold, and they ain't fed us too good the past coupla days."_

"_You've still got the blanket I gave you, don'tcha?"_

"_Sure...you want it back?"_

"_No, I just wanted to make sure you had it; it's gonna get a lot colder once the snowy weather hits." Adams reached into his pocket then and pulled out the wrapped jerky. He handed it to the boy. "Here. It's jerky."_

_The younger man's eyes lit up. "Jerky? I ain't seen jerky since two months afore I got here!" He unwrapped it and was about to take a huge bite, when he squinted in the dark at the man who had taken care of him like an older brother. "Maybe you should eat it...you been lookin' kinda tired lately, lieutenant."_

"_Nah, I don't need it, Jimmy. I had some earlier," he fibbed, "you have it."_

"_Okay!"_

_Adams smiled as the boy devoured the dried meat, and then curled up with a blanket under him and one on top of him. Galen turned over onto his back, trying to get comfortable, but his neck and shoulder still ached terribly. After a long while, he fell into an exhausted sleep, but as the temperature outside began to drop, he shivered, and rolled over onto his left side, arms folded across and knees pulled up across his chest, trying to keep himself warm. He hadn't been asleep long, when the agitated voices beyond the door reached his unquiet mind, stirring him from any sleep he might have had._

"_I already told you, you stinkin' blue-coat, when I say move, I mean move now!" The voice raised slightly in volume, "Hey boys, lookie what I got here."_

"_What is it Carp?" Another guard called out._

"_I got me a blue-coat whut's got himself beat up."_

"_You takin' him ta see the doc?"_

"_Not our doc; I ain't gonna make a Confederate officer touch this piece of union scum. Ain't there one of them blue docs still at it?"_

"_No, Adams was the last one still doctorin', but Wilkins sent little Lord Fauntleroy to bed a few hours ago."_

"_Well, Danny, wake the lord and get his ass out here."_

_Adams opened the door to the hallway, and stepped out, closing it behind him: there was no sense in waking all of them when he knew it was him they would be coming after. He looked at the lot of them and glared hard._

"_Oh," Danny said, "it looks like our lord has got out of the wrong side of his blanket."_

_Adams stepped toward the injured union man, but Carp stopped him with the barrel of his weapon crossing his path. "I didn't tell you to move, dog-boy."_

_His voice was a cold as an icehouse. "I thought you wanted me to take a look at this injured man."_

"_Listenin' in on our conversation was you? That's gonna cost you, little lord." _

_Carp backed up and swung his musket into Adams' midsection, knocking the surgeon to his knees. Adams held his stomach with one arm, and leaned on his hand with the other, groaning._

"_I don't think our little lord is used to that kind of rough treatment, Carp," Danny offered, "after all, Wilkins treats him more like kin than enemy."_

"_How long has it been since we had at you," Whitefield, a heavyset guard asked, "last night was it?"_

_The men laughed, and slowly Adams pulled himself off the floor, once again moving toward the beaten union officer._

"_You don't learn so quick, do you?" Carp said as he swung the musket again, this time clipping Adams in the back, across his kidneys._

_Galen cried in pain as he fell, the wind pushing out of his lungs, causing him to gasp for air._

"_You better back off, Carp," a younger guard said, "if Wilkins finds out, you'll wind up like Johnson."_

"_He ain't gonna say nothin'. Lord Fauntleroy's a slave-lover, but he's a little smarter than the average blue-coat." Carp kicked Adams hard in the kidney. "That's for what Wilkins did to Johnson, you piece of union shit."_

_The younger guard spoke up again, "And if he tells Wilkins about this, that old man'll add your balls to the jar with Johnson's..."_

_Adams looked up. "What?"_

_Danny stared down at the young surgeon. "You know, I don't believe our little lord knew about that, boys." He bent down toward Adams. "Johnson lost his stripes, his medical privileges, and about a week after Wilkins kicked him out of here, Johnson turned up with a bloody crotch, said a dog bit him in the nuts."_

"_But the surgeon who tended him said it weren't no dog did that to him. It was a clean cut he said, probably with a knife that was as sharp as a scalpel. Wilkins said he was gonna have Johnson's testicles for jumpin' on you, and it looks like that's just what he did."_

"_He wouldn't have done that," Adams defended, "Dr. Wilkins wouldn't purposefully mutilate a man."_

"_I think you've hit one of them nerves, Danny," Carp said, "look at the little lord's face. Maybe you done burst his bubble about that ol' sawbones."_

_Adams slowly stood, holding a hand against his back. "Do you want me to see to this officer or not?"_

"_Gotta give him credit for one-mindedness, Carp," Danny said._

"_Let's go to the infirmary then, little lord..."_

_Adams gently took the beaten man by the arm, and walked with him toward the infirmary. "I'm Dr. Adams, captain."_

"_Captain Greer, doctor, but I think you might need a doc worse'n me now..."_

"_Shut-up," Carp growled, "both of you just shut-up."_

_Adams led the captain into the infirmary and sat him down on a table. He soaked a few cloths in some water in a basin, and then cleaned the cuts on the man's face and arms. Then he examined his ribs, and after discovering two broken ones and wrapping them, he pat the captain on the knee._

"_You need to take it easy on those ribs for a few weeks, captain."_

_Greer looked over at Carp. "Tell that to him."_

_Adams frowned and turned to face Carp. "You beat him?"_

_Carp smiled. "Why I surely did...that make you mad, does it?"_

"_Why'd you do it?"_

"_Because he's a rotten, stinking union officer, that's why. And if I had my druthers, I'd beat you into a mindless pulp."_

_Adams stared him down. "I don't see anyone stopping you from trying it."_

_Greer spoke up, "Lieutenant, he's a mean one, and he's at least twice your size."_

"_Don't let that worry you, captain, it doesn't me."_

"_Oh, you're askin' for it, little lord, but you know, it strikes me that I could beat on you all day, and you'd stand that a lot better than you would seein' somebody else get it." He could tell from Adams' fearful eyes that he had called it. "Isn't that right, little lord?"_

_Carp laughed as he took a swing at Adams, who ducked and punched the man hard in the stomach. Carp grabbed the small man by the collar, hitting him in the head with his own, and then landing a solid punch in Galen's ribs, sending him into a wall. Greer jumped into the fray, throwing his fist into Carp's mouth, knocking a tooth out, which Carp spit to the floor. The gray-coat punched Greer solidly in the belly, followed by an upper cut to the chin. As Adams pulled himself off the floor, preparing to tackle the much larger man, Carp picked up his gun, and aimed it at Greer's head._

"_No!" Adams screamed._

_As Galen started for Greer, intending to shove him out of the way or take the bullet himself, the door opened, and Wilkins grabbed Adams from behind, holding him tightly against himself. "Lieutenant, stand down!" The doctor yelled into his young assistant's ear._

"_No," Adams yelled, struggling against Wilkins. But then Carp pulled the trigger, sending brain matter, bits of skull and blood flying everywhere in the small room, spattering the faces of both Adams and Wilkins._

_As Greer's lifeless body sank to the floor, Wilkins felt Adams go slack against him, all the fight having gone out of him._

"_I take it, Sergeant," Wilkins said calmly, "that you have an explanation for killing this man?"_

"_Yes, doctor, Greer needed medical attention, so I got Adams and brought them in here. The two of them jumped me. I didn't have no choice but to shoot."_

_Wilkins turned Galen around to face him. "Adams? Did you jump this guard?"_

_Adams glared over at Carp, indicating it was far from over, but all he said was, "Yeah, I jumped him."_

_Frowning, Wilkins barked at Carp, "Dismissed, sergeant."_

"_Yes sir."_

_Carp left, and Wilkins sat Adams in a chair, reaching for a towel to quickly wipe his own face of the sticky fluids he could feel on it. He then tossed the towel at his assistant surgeon, who wiped his own face clean, and then Wilkins poured a fresh basin of water and soaked a cloth in it. Wordlessly he cleaned the cut across Adams' forehead, and then checked the bruises and bumps to his ribs and back. Galen could feel the man's anger radiating off of him, and he felt guilty. When he was satisfied Adams was all right, Wilkins leaned against the exam table in the room, his arms crossed in front of his chest._

"_What in the hell was this all about?"_

"_Nothing."_

"_Nothing? Don't lie to me, lieutenant."_

_Adams had to look away, unable to meet the man's eyes. "I'm sorry," he muttered._

"_You're sorry. A man is dead, Adams. His brains are all over the walls of this room, and until we cleaned it off, all over you and me. You're a doctor, not some halfcocked ranch hand. You don't settle an argument with your fists."_

"_Oh that's rich, the reb's telling me not to take up arms to settle a debate--"_

_He regretted saying it the moment it left his lips, but it was too late._

_Cut to the core, the chief surgeon simply said,"I see." Wilkins stood and walked to the door, opening it. "You'd better get back to your quarters, lieutenant. It's getting late."_

_Wilkins walked out the door, closing it gently behind him. And for the first time since his existence had become nothing but blood, bullets and limbs, Galen Adams broke down and wept, never in his life having felt more ashamed._


	6. Chapter 6

Kitty had fallen asleep in the chair by the exam table, her head and arms perched on the edge of Doc's pillow. She started awake, unsure of what had roused her, until she glanced at the catatonic doctor, and saw tears streaming out of the sides of his eyes and down his face. Alarmed, Kitty leaned in close to him, placing both of her hands on either side of his head, staring into his open yet unseeing eyes.

"Doc? Oh Doc, what is it?" Tears continued to flow from his eyes, but he remained unresponsive to her presence. Helplessness and fear colored her timbre, "I don't know what to do to help you, Doc. I just don't know what to do..." She wiped the moisture from his face, but new droplets of salty water simply reappeared from his pale blue eyes. "Please snap out of this, Doc, please."

But Doc Adams couldn't hear her pleas anymore than he could feel her tears mingling with his as they dropped onto his face...

_**

* * *

December 1862**_

_Adams shivered, unable to sleep. He rolled over onto his side into a ball, trying to create warmth, but it was a losing proposition as the temperature outside continued to fall, making the wooden floor seem even colder. He watched Jimmy, shivering in the dark, despite the two blankets he was wrapped up in, and Adams felt the familiar sensations of helplessness and despair. How he hated it. From top to bottom, with very few exceptions, Libby Prison was guarded by some of the cruelest human beings Adams had ever encountered. He wondered if they had always been that way, or if it had crept up on them, like some kind of unwanted disease. He rolled onto his his back again; perhaps a loss of humanity was at the price a man paid for incarcerating other human beings. Maybe the only way most of them could live with the realities of war and its refuse was to turn the union soldiers into wild things not deserving of the most basic of needs, instead of seeing them as living, breathing flesh and blood men._

_And the memory of the night on the battlefield when he had felt the same obliteration of humanity came flooding back to him, stinging his eyes. He stared in the dark, up toward the wooden-beamed ceiling, and was entrenched with remorse. There could be no forgiveness for the lives he willfully took that night, nor the many lives he had been unable to save since. He wondered how Dr. Wilkins had been able to keep his sanity in such a place, much less his humanity. Dr. Wilkins. Just the thought of the man left a pain in his heart, for it hadn't been the same between them since Adams had spoken so harshly to him the night that Greer was killed. He had apologized, and the surgeon had nodded, but the wedge between them had only widened. _

_He heard voices stirring in the hallway, and knew the day would be starting soon. It was nothing he could look forward to: gangrene, typhoid, dysentery, and death. Adams glanced again at the young boy sleeping next to him; he had lost weight from malnutrition, and Adams worried that scurvy might be setting in. He surveyed the other men in the room and couldn't deny that they were all suffering from lack of food, warmth and sanitation. It was a sad fact that most of the prisoners at Libby didn't die of wounds, but of infection, disease and malnutrition._

_The door to the small room opened then, and the guard on duty walked in, lighting the kerosene lamps as he walked through the rows of sleeping men. "Let's go ya blue-coats, time to get to work."_

_Slowly, the men arose, folded their blankets and walked toward the door, heading for the mess hall. Adams silently followed in line, feeling the stubble on his face, wishing his turn to bathe and shave was closer than three days away. The men walked in a line through the mess doors and to a table to get a plate, spoon and cup. The reb private standing behind the table slopped some gruel onto Adams' plate, and the young doctor held his cup out to the next man who poured watered-down coffee into it. The rebs always made coffee for themselves for several days with the grounds before they were used for the union men, resulting in a drink that always reminded the young doctor of dirty sock water._

_He followed the line of men to a table and sat down next to Jimmy, whose pallor in the dawnlight from the windows washed concern through the young physician. Galen ate a small amount of the tasteless mush in front of him, and after Jimmy had scarfed his food down, Adams pushed his own plate in front of the boy._

"_Here Jimmy, why don't you finish this too?"_

"_Ain'tcha gonna eat it, lieutenant?"_

"_Nah, I'm not too hungry. You go ahead."_

"_Thanks,"the young boy said as he began to devour food that was probably more fit for hogs than humans, as if it were a steak._

_A passing corporal hit Adams in the shoulder with the butt of his rifle. "You ain't supposed to share food, Adams, and you know it. You been warned before."_

"_What difference does it make, corporal? It's not like I'm going to get another helping of it."_

"_Thems the rules, blue-coat. Chief Surgeon don't want no germs passed that way. You're a sawbones, you orta know that."_

_Adams stood. "Look, corporal, he's just a boy and he ain't gettin' enough to eat. Just let him have it and I'll owe you a favor, okay?"_

_The corporal laughed. "You ain't got nuthin' to trade with, Adams, and you know it." He slammed Adams' hard in the chest with the rifle, sending the doctor falling into his chair, gasping for air._

_Jimmy put his arms around the winded officer and glared at the gray-coat. "Please corporal, please leave him alone...he was just tryin' to be nice to me, as a kinda Christmas present."_

"_Christmas present?"_

"_Yeah," the young boy continued, "it is Christmas today, ain't it?"_

"_Now how in the hell did you know that, boy?"_

_He shrugged. "Overheard the night guards talkin' 'bout how they wisht they was home." The young boy looked hard at the reb. "It was the first time since I been here that I felt like I had a... a kinda feelin' fer 'em." The corporal was too stunned to respond and the boy added, "I wisht I was home too." The gray-coat didn't respond, but instead of pushing the issue any further, he walked away. Jimmy rubbed a hand over Adams shoulders, worried. "You okay, lieutenant?"_

_Shrugging out of the boy's grip, Adams said, "Sure Jimmy, sure. You finish your breakfast now, before it gets any colder." When the pale blue eyes looked up, they were met by the steady gaze of Roy Kramer. Adams' voice sounded annoyed, "What?"_

"_They always beat you up worse than anybody else in this place." His eyes darted to the boy and then back to Addams. "It's as if they got somethin' hangin' over you, keepin' you quiet." Kramer shook his head. "One of these days, Doc, they're gonna smash your skull open like a watermelon on the fourth of July."_

"_I don't think so, Roy, because then the abuse they're dolin' out to prisoners'd be visible, and Wilkins or somebody like him might put a stop to it."_

_Kramer hadn't heard Adams mention the chief surgeon who'd taken the young doctor under his wing in a long time. "You and Wilkins don't seem too close these days..."_

"_No, that's right."_

"_Never forgave you for talkin' outta turn, huh?"_

"_Guess not," Adams said flatly, taking a sip of the weak coffee._

"_It's Christmas day, Doc, maybe you should talk to him."_

_Adams looked at Kramer sharply. "You talk to him, Roy."_

"_I ain't you, Doc. Wilkins ain't got the same feelin' fer me..."_

_Adams set his cup down, but before he could say anything, the guards were rousting the men from the tables. Adams picked up his plate, cup and spoon and carried it to the detail of union men waiting to wash all of it. He hadn't remembered that today was Christmas, and in such a place as Libby, what did it matter? He glanced over at Kramer, wondering what the man hadn't told him, because he could feel that there was something; he had been feeling it since he had first awakened in the infirmary. Roy Kramer had been at Libby since it was turned into prison, even before Dr. Wilkins had been appointed chief surgeon. There wasn't much he hadn't seen or didn't know about the place. But that fact left Adams with little comfort._

_Still, perhaps it was an appropriate day to mend the damage he had inflicted. His words that night had been spoken out of frustration and anger with a situation; it had never been his intention to hurt the old man, and the least he could do was to tell him so one more time._

* * *

Matt gripped the strong hand in his own, wiping away the stream of tears rolling down Adams' cheeks. "It's okay, Doc," he said softly, "just calm down, ol' boy." Dillon placed his other hand reassuringly on the old man's chest, as if he could give him strength through it. He glanced over at Kitty. "How long has he been like this?" 

"I'm not sure exactly, but for at least the last half hour. Oh Matt, what if he's in pain?"

"There isn't a mark on him, so I doubt it's that, Kitty."

"What should we do?"

He looked into the frightened crystal blue eyes and wanted to make everything all right for her, but all he could say was, "I wish I knew, Kitty." He glanced back down at Adams and said, "I sent a telegram to Johns Hopkins, maybe someone there will be able to help."

"And in the meantime? I can't stand to see him like this..."

"We stay here with him, and we hope he knows he's not alone."

_**

* * *

December 1862**_

_Adams held the man down while Wilkins continued sawing his leg._

"_Damn this war!" Wilkins growled, "It's not bad enough we've got more wounded than we can handle, but now the damn blockade's kept our medical supplies from gettin' here on time, and I'm having to hack off a man's leg without anesthesia. Goddamn war..."_

_Adams glanced with concern at Wilkins: it was the first time he'd ever heard the man take God's name in vain; but he understood the doctor's frustration. He held tightly onto the poor private howling in agony as Wilkins continued to saw through the bone. Finally Wilkins severed the limb, and the two surgeons quickly closed the vessels and arteries, wrapping the stump in an alcohol-soaked bandage. The chief surgeon put a cool cloth on the private's forehead, and the two doctors stepped away from the cot._

"_Thanks for the help, Adams," Wilkins said as he clasped the young doctor's shoulder, causing Adams to grimace. "What's the matter?"_

"_Nothing, sir."_

_Adams started away, but Wilkins grabbed his arm. "Hold on a minute, lieutenant." Wilkins gently squeezed his assistant's shoulder in a few places and Adams winced. "Sit down, Adams, and open your shirt." Galen hesitated and Wilkins barked, "That's not a request, boy. Do it."_

_Begrudgingly Adams obeyed and Wilkins looked over the bruises and lacerations of abuse which covered the doctor's chest, arms and back. The old man couldn't keep the anger from his timbre, "What the hell has been goin' on, boy?"_

"_Dr. Wilkins," Adams begged, "please just let it go. It's not that bad, really." He quickly closed his shirt and started to get up. "I have to get back to work."_

_But Wilkins held the young man down in the chair. "Not so fast, lieutenant, I'm not finished with you." Wilkins gently examined the marks on his assistant's body, and shook his head. He then studied the young man's face, eyes and color, and realized the generally poor condition he was in. "We rebs ain't takin' very good care of you, are we?"_

_Adams closed his eyes, ashamed that Wilkins would include himself in such a statement, but knowing damned well why he had, and it shamed him._

"_Well boy," Wilkins said softly, "are you gonna tell me who done this to you, or am I gonna have to go after every guard in this prison until they understand that you blue-coats ain't here for them to beat on?"_

_Panic set into Adams' eyes. "Please Dr. Wilkins, please just let it go," Adams begged, "It'll only result in--" But Galen stopped himself, looking down, fighting off emotion that threatened to overwhelm him._

_When the young man didn't continue, Wilkins pat the back of his head gently. "It'll only result in what, son?" And for the first time since he'd known him, Dr. Wilkins felt Adams shaking from fear. The old surgeon frowned, bending his head down, trying to catch Galen's eye, but the young man wouldn't look at him. He put an arm around Adams' shoulder. "What did they tell you they were gonna do to you if you said something, boy?"_

_Adams shook his head, his voice quaking slightly, "Not to me...to Jimmy Langdon."_

_Wilkins had to think for a minute, then said, "You mean that litter-bearer who's barely fifteen?" _

_Adams nodded. "Please, please don't say anything. For his sake, please..."_

_Wilkins shook his head. "And what about your sake? Am I supposed to let these guards continue to mercilessly beat on you until you wind up dead?"_

"_I don't care what happens to me...if I can just save this one boy from dyin' in this hell..."_

_The frustration, fears and guilt spilled from Adams then, in a rush of emotion. And the words struck Wilkins hard, having uttered them once or twice himself. He gently pulled the young man into his arms, holding him tightly._

"_Here now, little scrap, don't go puttin' all of this responsibility onto your shoulders. It don't belong there."_

_He gripped the front of Wilkins' uniform shirt as if he'd never let go, feeling his own shoulders shaking from released emotion as he cried into the material. "If I can just save this one..."_

_The old surgeon pat the boy gently on the back. "Hush now, son, don't you worry about Jimmy Langdon; I'll see to it nothing happens to him, but I can't let you get beat up every night either. I swear I've had about all I'm gonna take from this war today." He pushed Adams away from him then, and steadied the pale, young doctor with his hands. "You really ain't feelin' too good, are ya, boy?" Ashamed of his own weakness, Adams shook his head. "I've gotta try and get you boys some vinegar or limes, and some kinda meat, before every last one of you is too sick or weak to move." Wilkins started away, but Adams grasped his hand tightly. "What is it, son?"_

"_I'm sorry," the young man whispered, "I'm so sorry for what I said. As God is my witness, I swear I didn't mean it." The sad blue eyes that looked up into Wilkins' face were filled with remorse. "You've been nothing but decent to me, and I had no right to sound off like that, not to you. I just wanted you to know that I didn't mean it."_

_Wilkins stared hard into the depths of pale blue. "Has that been on your mind this long while, son?" Adams nodded, and a lump landed in the old man's throat. "You are so very much like him."_

"_Like who, sir?"_

_Wilkins smiled sadly and looked away. "My son. He was just a little older than you; readin' medicine too. He was studyin' with me, when he decided he couldn't just doctor soldiers, but he had to fight as one; my boy was a young man of conviction and strength, Adams, a lot like someone else I know." He took a long breath of air, then continued, "Christmas day was the last time I saw him, until one day I was sewin' blue-coats up and they put a litter in front of me. I didn't even notice the face of the boy, because I was caught up in trying to figure out how I was gonna save a man whose body had been severed in half. How he was even still alive, I don't know, except that he was a scrappy little fighter." He looked into Adams' eyes, "I had started putting tourniquets everywhere to try and stop the bleeding, when I heard my son's voice call for me." _

"_Your son was a union soldier?"_

"_He never could abide the idea of enslaving one race for the economic prosperity of another."_

_Adams frowned. "I'm surprised that the Confederates have allowed you to--"_

"_--They don't know." _

_Adams frowned. "Why do you stay here, working as a Confederate officer, Dr. Wilkins?"_

"_I couldn't save my own boy, but I'm damned well gonna save somebody else's." The old man smiled and squeezed the hand still holding his tightly before gently letting go. "You're a little scrap doctor, just like my son was."_

"_That's not an answer to my question."_

"_War can sure cause a lot of hell, boy. I think if the men who declared it actually had to fight it, we wouldn't have any." He cuffed his protégé behind the neck. "Come on, there's a lot of patients waiting for us on rounds yet, little scrap."_

* * *

Chester quickly walked through the door of Doc's office, waving a piece of paper. "Mr. Dillon! Mr. Dillon!" 

"I'm right here, Chester, you don't need to yell..."

"Sorry, Mr. Dillon, but this here's the telegram you been waitin' for from that feller back East, John Hopkins..."

Matt took the paper from his assistant as he said, "It's Johns Hopkins, and it's a place, not a fella."

Chester's brows knitted together trying to figure it out, but all he said was, "Oh."

Dillon read the telegram and frowned as he looked over at Kitty. "This is from a Dr. Sondersen in the neuro...uh, neur-o-lo-gy department. He says he'd like to see Doc if we can bring him to Baltimore. If not, he says we should contact a Dr. Phip McGee in Kansas City."

"Well forevermore, Mr. Dillon," Chester commented, "I don't think we should try and take ol' Doc on a train like he is..."

"We're not going to take him on a train, Chester," Matt growled, "We'll contact this Dr. McGee and see how quickly he can come to Dodge." Dillon's eyes met Kitty's. "If you can stay for awhile longer, Kitty, I'll spell you with him for the night."

"I wasn't plannin' on leavin' him, Matt."

The lawman nodded and pulling Chester by the arm, led him out the door. Kitty looked down into Doc's face, and realized his eyes were closed finally, and the tears had stopped falling. She stroked the back of her hand down the side of his face.

"I hope you're asleep now, Doc, gettin' some rest." She leaned over and placed a soft kiss on his forehead, brushing her hand across the spot where her lips had pressed. "I love you, handsome," she whispered, "and I miss mornin' coffee with you. It just isn't the same when you're not there grouchin' about Chester, old Mrs. Predlin and the weather. I need you, Doc, more than you'll ever know."

_**

* * *

December 1862**_

_Adams had felt lightheaded most of the day during his rounds, but chalked it up to the beating he had taken that morning. His stomach growled yet again, and it was becoming harder to ignore. He shivered slightly as he prepared to take a look at the next patient, who was struggling to survive gangrene. Wilkins had removed the man's leg two days prior, but the infection was still raging out of control, and Adams was beginning to doubt the man's chances. He sat down on the edge of the cot and gently wiped a cool cloth over the man's fevered brow._

"_Easy does it, private. Just take it easy."_

_He dunked the cloth again, and brushed it over the man's cheeks and chin, trying to at least make him more comfortable. He squeezed some of the liquid over the young private's lips, noting how chapped they were from dehydration. Sighing deeply, Adams stood, turning to go to the next cot and the next case, but as he tried to put one foot in front of the other, his legs gave way from under him, sending him sprawling to the floor. _

"_Adams!" Wilkins cried as he saw his assistant hit the wooden boards like a sack of potatoes._

_Wilkins knelt next to him, and Kramer hovered nearby._

_Adams moaned, "I'm sorry, Dr. Wilkins..."_

"_Don't you worry, son, I've got you."_

_Kramer's voice reflected his concern, "What is it, Dr. Wilkins?"_

_Wilkins turned to Kramer. "Looks like scurvy." _

"_He ain't been eatin' too good," Kramer offered._

"_I know that, Kramer, no one does here."_

"_No sir, I mean he often gives his grub to the other men, and Jimmy's had his blanket for at least two months, maybe three. And he ain't complained about it, but the guards have been roughin' him up somethin' awful."_

_Disgusted, Wilkins picked the young man up off the floor, hoisting him into his arms. "Come on, Kramer, I'll need your help."_

"_Sure, captain, anything to help Doc."_

"_Doc?"_

"_That's how most of the union boys call him, on account he won't tell nobody his first name."_

_Wilkins had to shake his head as he carried the passed out boy from the infirmary; the young man was still full of surprises. The old doctor just hoped that the promising surgeon could surprise him again by finding the strength to overcome a bodily system that had been stressed past the point of human tolerance._


	7. Chapter 7

_**December 1862**_

_Adams groaned as he grappled for consciousness, and Wilkins sat down on the edge of the bed. "Feelin' any better, boy?"_

_His voice sounded low, even to him, "Yeah...what happened?"_

"_You passed out. That's the cost of sleeping on a cold floor with no blanket, and giving away most of your food."_

_Adams looked at his surroundings, realizing he was in a real bed, and he frowned. "Where are we?"_

"_My quarters."_

_Alarmed, Adams tried to push up off the bed. "Doctor...if Major Voss finds out about this, he'll have your head on a--"_

_Wilkins gently restrained the younger man. "--Take it easy, Adams, it's just for the night - and none of those guards want to tangle with Major Voss over something like this." He pulled the covers up around the young man's shoulders, "I want you to keep warm and get some rest now."_

_The panic remained on the young surgeon's face. "I can't stay here...I can't leave Jimmy by himself..." Adams grabbed Wilkins' shirtsleeves. "You don't know what the guards'll do to that kid if I'm not there."_

_He gently pried the young man's hands from his shirt. "Relax, son. I've asked Kramer to keep an eye on him, so he'll be fine. And I don't think the guards will be working you over again any time soon either, boy."_

_The fear in Adams' voice was palpable, "You warned them off of me, and they'll think I told you."_

_Wilkins didn't understand the sound of betrayal nor the dread in his young protégé's tone. "It'll be all right, Adams," he pat the man's hand, "I promise you; the guards won't cross me."_

_But Adams knew them better than Wilkins, and his fear escalated. "You don't know what they're capable of, sir."_

_Wilkins frowned. "Adams, calm down." But the terror of experience in the pale blue eyes showed the old doctor more than he had wanted to see. He swallowed hard and said, "I didn't know it had been that bad, boy." His voice turned soft and self-accusatory, "Maybe I just didn't want to know..."_

"_They'll kill him, Dr. Wilkins. That's what they said they'd do if I ever told you."_

"_No, son, they won't dare." He reached over to the table by the bed and picked up some pills and a glass of water, handing them to Adams. "Here, I want you to take these and get some sleep."_

"_What about Jimmy?"_

"_I'll make sure he's all right." Adams took the sedatives and Wilkins returned the glass to the table, but his assistant surgeon was still highly agitated. Wilkins stroked his hand over the young man's forehead soothingly. "Close your eyes, son, and go to sleep."_

_Feeling the pull of the drug, Adams' eyelids fluttered. "Please...don't let them hurt that boy..."_

"_Shhh...you just rest."_

_As Adams dropped into a deep sleep, Wilkins held the young surgeon's wrist, checking it against the second hand of his pocketwatch. His heart was still beating too rapidly, overworking to try and compensate for the toll the scurvy had taken on him, and the doctor wondered if he should just keep the young man in bed for a few days, as opposed to one night. He glanced down at the exhausted, pale face, finally relaxed in sleep, and Wilkins decided that an enforced bed rest would be the best thing for him. He shook his head at himself: that he had become overprotective and attached to his assistant surgeon was not in doubt; how far he would go to safeguard him was the question. And Captain John Wilkins, M.D. didn't have an answer._

_He looked at his pocketwatch once more before putting it away: a quarter past one in the morning. He was late. He pulled the blanket up tightly around the young man's neck, then quietly he left the room, closing the door behind him._

* * *

Matt walked into the office and set his hat on the coat rack behind the door before closing it. "Any change?" He asked Kitty. 

She looked up from her chair. "It looks like he's asleep now."

Dillon walked over to the table and stared at the old man's face. "He seems a lot calmer."

Her eyes met his, and the fear in hers made him swallow hard. "I'm scared, Matt," she said.

"I know."

"No...I mean, I'm really scared. What if he doesn't come out of this?"

"We can't think like that, Kitty. Doc's one of the strongest and most steadfast men I've ever known; if anyone can come out of whatever he's goin' through..." His voice dropped before he finished, his own fear interjecting itself.

Kitty took Dillon's hand in hers. "There must be somethin' we can do to help him, Matt. Something..."

"Right now what I'm going to do to help him is give you a break. Go on home now, Kitty, and get some rest."

"But Matt--"

He shook his head. "--No. Let me spell you." He looked into her determined eyes. "If there's one thing Doc _wouldn't_ want, it would be for you to wear yourself down on account of him."

She glanced at the doctor, and brushed a curl from his forehead. "I know that." Her crystal eyes flicked up to Dillon's. "It's just hard to leave him like this, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. But I'll be right here with him all night. You can count on that."

Kitty leaned into Dillon and kissed his lips softly. "I'll see you in the morning, unless something changes. You will come and get me if--"

"--If there's any change, I'll get you."

"Good night, Matt."

"Good night, Kitty."

He escorted her out the door, and then he stood on the landing and watched her walk to the Longbranch. Dillon closed the door and settled into the chair by the exam table, silently observing the gentle rise and fall of Doc's chest: if only there was something more he could do.

_**

* * *

December 1862**_

_He marveled at the crispness of the major's uniform as the man continued to pace the length of the room in agitation, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was so used to being surrounded by filthy yankee prisoners, and less than respectable southerners, he found it was always difficult to try and adjust in the presence of a true gentleman like Major Voss._

_The six foot two inch major stopped pacing and whirled on the man standing before him. "Well, are you going to make a report or am I going to wear a hole in this rug?"_

"_I'm thinkin' we ain't gotta--"_

"_--Oh for the love of God, can't you remember to wipe out that disgusting dialect when you're in here talking to me? I just cannot abide it."_

_His tone turned slightly acidic, "I'm sorry, major, it's sometimes difficult to overcome the part I'm having to play in the name of the Confederate States..."_

_Voss cleared his throat then. "No sir, it is I who should apologize; you're doing a great service to our cause, and at a great personal cost to yourself. Please, do continue."_

"_Yes sir. I'm yet to root out who among our ranks is the union spy, nor how he's getting information out and across the lines, but there are a few noteworthy suspects. At the top of my list remains Captain Spencer and Lieutenant Jones; they both have access to everything here at Libby Prison, and they both have family ties that cross the Mason-Dixon. Also to be considered is Corporal Weems, although he doesn't have a lot of access given his rank, but I've noticed that he tends to be less vocal than most of the guards and far less aggressive in his handling of the prisoners."_

"_That could speak only to the man's personal constitution..."_

"_True enough, major. And there's also Captain Wilkins."_

"_The Chief Surgeon?"_

"_Yes, sir. He has access to just about everything, and he seems to be more than just sympathetic when it comes to taking care of the injured blue-coats. Why he's even given his bed to his assistant surgeon because the man's come down with scurvy."_

"_You mean Adams?"_

"_Yes, major, that's the man."_

"_I've heard he's quite a good doctor."_

"_Yes, Dr. Wilkins says he has one of the most gifted pair of hands he's seen in a long time."_

"_I'm not sure how much stock we should put in that relationship; after all, Wilkins hasn't had the proper time to grieve the loss of his son. He's simply transferred his feelings to this young man Adams." Voss stared at him. "Am I correct that Dr. Wilkins is yet unaware of our knowledge of his son's service with the yankees?"_

"_No inkling, sir."_

"_Good, it's best we keep it that way, just in case he turns out to be more than he appears." _

"_Yes sir. I am concerned though, about these clandestine meetings he slips away to late at night."_

_Voss smiled. "His midnight rendezvous with Elizabeth Van Lew? I don't believe that's much of a threat to us. Frankly, I find Adams to be far more dangerous to us than Wilkins."_

"_If you mean in terms of his sway with the men, you're right, sir. Even though he's one of the younger officers, they all respect him, and generally listen to him."_

"_I was afraid of that...it's too bad he didn't just die when he arrived."_

"_I honestly thought he was going to, or I would have helped him along."_

"_No matter; he might be of more use to us alive, if we can get control of him."_

"_I think I might have a way..."_

_The smile on the mole's face sent a shiver up Voss' spine, and he was very thankful he wasn't Dr. Adams. "Very well, just make sure you don't spill your hand in the process."_

"_Adams thinks I'm a friend; he'd never suspect me."_

"_Very well then, you're dismissed."_

_And Roy Kramer turned sharply and walked out of the room._


	8. Chapter 8

Matt sat quietly in the chair by the exam table, staring at his oldest friend. The hurt in Dillon's heart at seeing Adams struck down in this manner was tangible. He observed the old man lying on the hard table, neither moving nor making a sound, and it felt as if the man he knew no longer existed; but Matt couldn't allow himself to think on that, for such a possibility was more than he could bear. He studied the old doctor for awhile, and it occurred to him that maybe Adams would be more comfortable in his soft bed in the adjacent room. Matt stood, opened the door to the back bedroom, then bent down and gently scooped up the small doctor in his arms. Dillon walked into the other room with him and carefully lay him down on the bed, pulling the covers down underneath the doctor's body. Gently he removed most of Doc's clothes, and given the continuing heat in Dodge, covered the man with only a sheet. Matt pulled a chair next to the bed, lit the lamp on the nightstand and watched the steady rise and fall of Doc's chest for a minute or two.

The lawman's voice was uncharacteristically soft when he spoke, "Doc, I don't know if you can hear me, but there're a couple of things I want to say to you." Dillon nervously cleared his throat. "I don't know how or why you've fallen into this state that you're in, all I know is that we're all pretty scared, Doc. You should see poor Chester... he just paces around the office, wearing a hole in the floor, driving me crazy. He's frustrated because he just doesn't know how to help you, Doc, and...and he's afraid for you."

Matt's lips pursed together then, an outward manifestation of the turmoil inside his heart. "And there's Kitty..." Dillon had to take in a large breath of air attempting to steady himself. "Aw Doc...Kitty's so upset. You two joke around a lot about rockin' chairs and marriage proposals, but I know the love between you. She adores you, Doc, the way a proud daughter does a father; and I know how unconditionally you love her." Matt's finger nervously traced the dust on his boot which was crossed over his knee, finding the stark telling of his mind difficult. "You're the only man I would ever allow such familiarity. That's terribly jealous, isn't it? Your love for her is as pure as it gets, yet I don't think I could tolerate it from any other man. But I know that she can trust you implicitly and if anything ever happened to me, you'd make sure she was all right. And that allows me to sleep at night, Doc, knowing you're there."

If Adams heard him at all, there was no sign of it, as the man's chest continued to rise and fall in a steady rhythm. Matt licked his lips before continuing. "She needs you, Doc, and that's why you've gotta shake yourself loose from this, ol' boy. I know seeing Haskett again churned up a part of your past that you didn't want to face because maybe it's painful; but you can't avoid the pain by checking out of your life. You can't do that to Kitty, or Chester..." Dillon's voice broke with emotion then, "My God, Doc, you can't do it to me..."

Matt's eyes misted over and he had to swallow down the emotions that tightened his throat. "_I_ need you, ya ol' buzzard. I wouldn't have made it in Dodge without you, Doc..." Dillon swallowed down the lump in his throat. "And I can't bear to lose you."

Dillon reached his hand out and placed it gently over Adams'. "Please come back to us, Doc." Matt folded his fingers around Adams' limp hand, squeezing it gently. "Please," he whispered.

_**

* * *

January 1, 1863  
**_

_Wilkins pulled the stethoscope from his ears and smiled. "That's more like it for a young scrapper your age." He pat the surgeon's arm. "How're you feeling?"_

"_A lot better."_

"_Thatta boy."_

_Wilkins stood, folding his stethoscope into his jacket pocket. And as he headed for the door he said, "Tomorrow I'm putting you back to work, and I'm afraid that'll mean back to your old wooden floor - I'm sorry about that part of it, little scrap."_

_Adams shrugged. "It's been almost a week, the boys'll all have forgotten me by now..."_

"_Hardly. When I gave them some of the food Miss Van Lew donated to the prisoners, every last one of them asked about you."_

_Adams leaned back into the pillows, crossing his arms, a slightly impish grin twisting his lips. "You've been seeing quite a lot of Miss Van Lew lately..."_

"_Why you little--"_

_Adams held up his hand in defense. "--Kramer told me when he brought me lunch earlier." His grin widened. "Word among the men is that you're quite fond of her--"_

"_--Now you mind your tongue, you young whelp. Miss Van Lew is a very proper southern belle, of one of the oldest and richest families in Richmond; and she's just a friend. Besides, she doesn't believe in the mistreatment of prisoners so she uses her wealth to help me get the supplies I need for this hospital."_

_The twinkle in the bright blue eyes wasn't lost on Wilkins as the young man said, "Uh-huh."_

"_I have no time for this childish nonsense, Adams, I have rounds."_

"_Dr. Wilkins?"_

_Annoyed, the chief surgeon glared at the young man. "What?"_

"_Is she pretty?"_

"_You scrappy young whelp..."_

_Adams' laugh resounded in the old doctor's chest as he closed the door with a flourish; but once outside in the hallway, he couldn't resist a slight smile of his own. There was no doubt that Miss Van Lew was far more important to him than Adams could possibly imagine, despite the young man's obvious amusement with the idea that Wilkins had a woman. He shook his head, his smile turning wistful; he would miss having the young man around all the time - it was a great salve on a heart that was so damaged by the death of his own son. But he knew that Adams' bunkmates had missed him, especially Jimmy, and it would be good for hospital morale to have the talented young surgeon back on duty._

_Several of the union medical personnel greeted him, shook his hand or pat his arm, welcoming him back to his surgical duty at the hospital._

_Adams smiled at them all. "You fellas been gettin' enough to eat?" Several nodded their heads. "I heard that a very proper southern belle has been feedin' you boys for the past week or so - anybody get a look at the little piece of fluff?"_

_The men laughed and Kramer said, "I heard them guards say she was a looker, lieutenant!"_

_Adams smiled deeply at Kramer. "Now Roy, who're you callin' lieutenant? Most fellas around here call me Doc..."_

_Kramer pat Adams' shoulder and shook his hand. "We sure missed you, Doc."_

_Adams winked at him. "That's more like it." He looked at the men then and feeling emotion beginning to crawl up his belly, he said, "Well boys, we'd better get to work. The wounded around here don't wait for nobody..."_

_The small band of men dispersed and only Jimmy Langdon remained. "I'm sure glad ta have you back, lieutenant."_

_Adams put an arm around the young boy. "Things were okay for you while I was laid up, weren't they?"_

"_Sure, lieutenant, Sergeant Kramer took real good care of me; he kept them rebs off of me."_

"_I'm glad to hear that, Jimmy. I was worried aboutcha."_

"_You was?"_

"_Sure I was."_

"_You been gettin' enough to eat?"_

"_Yeah, the fellas been real good to me while you were gone."_

"_Okay." Adams ruffled the boy's hair. "Come on, I'm sure we've got plenty to do today..."_

* * *

She walked softly into the back room to find Matt asleep in the chair next to the bed, his hand sweetly holding Doc's. Kitty smiled slightly at the sight of her two favorite men, typically male in their reticence to be demonstrative with each other, caught in such a tender gesture; but the reason for it saddened her heart. She raked her fingers through Matt's tangled hair, and kissed him on the forehead. When he didn't stir, she rubbed her hand over his neck and down under his shirt over his back, eliciting a moan from him. A slight smile curved his lips as he felt the familiar touch of her hand on his skin. 

"Mmmm..."

She leaned into his ear, "Mornin' cowboy..."

He turned his head toward her, not yet completely awake, and grasped her lips with his. "Mornin'..."

Dillon roused then and realized he was sitting in a chair by Doc's bed, the old man's hand clasped tightly in his own. Embarrassment colored his cheeks slightly as he pulled his hand away from Adams'.

Kitty smiled at him. "He was quiet all night, I take it?"

"Yeah. I moved him in here because I thought he'd be a little more comfortable in his own bed."

Kitty looked down into Doc's peaceful face. "He looks so calm."

"Yeah. I just wish he'd wake up."

Kitty nodded. "Tell you what, cowboy, if you volunteer to walk down to Delmonico's and get some breakfast, I'll stay here with Doc and make a pot of coffee."

He stood then, stretching slightly. "You've got a deal." He leaned over and kissed her lips again, then the two of them stepped out into Adams' office, leaving the door to the bedroom open, in case the doctor should awaken. Dillon put his hat on his head and walked to the front door.

"I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Thanks Matt."

He looked at her over his shoulder as he stepped outside. "You just make sure your coffee's better than Chester's!"

Before she could sound-off a retort, he had closed the door behind himself. Shaking her head, Kitty set to the task of making a pot of coffee.

_**

* * *

January 1, 1863**_

_The day had been longer than he had anticipated, and busier than any of them would have wanted. A unit from the 9th cavalry had been captured, after most of the regiment had been wounded. Adams, Wilkins and every available hand had worked late into the night until the last man had been treated and bedded down. Adams squeezed the back of his own neck with his hand, trying to loosen the muscles._

"_Long day for your first day back, wasn't it?"_

_Adams turned to see Kramer standing behind him. "Yeah, sure was." The assistant surgeon surveyed the room observing most of his bunkmates organizing supplies, cleaning up the blood from the floor, and checking on the new patients. And a frown crossed his face._

"_Somethin' wrong, Doc?"_

_The pale eyes bore into Kramer. "I haven't seen Jimmy in quite awhile. You seen him?"_

_Kramer shook his head . "Can't say as I have, Doc. He's been in and out most of the day though, either bringing litters of wounded or gathering supplies. He's probably cleaning up somewhere around here."_

_But the awful feeling in the pit of Adams' stomach intensified. "I'm...I'm gonna look fer him."_

_Kramer shrugged. "Sure...I'm gonna try and get this mess cleaned up so we can all get to sleep sometime tonight."_

_But Adams was no longer listening to him as he walked every inch of the room looking for the young boy. He inquired among the men, but no one had seen the young litter-bearer for quite some time. _

"_I saw him, lieutenant," Corporal Kowalski offered.  
_

"_How long ago, Kowalski?"_

"_Don't know, guess it was about an hour or so ago."_

"_And?"_

_The man shrugged. "Well, he said one of the rebs came in here ta find him and told him that you was taken sick and needed help."_

"_What?"_

"_Said you was down in the union bunkhouse and he was gonna make sure you was all right."_

_Panic beagn to rise in his throat. "Oh my God..."_

_Adams took off at a dead run, heading for the room the union medical personnel bunked in every night. From the corner of his eye, Wilkins saw his assistant surgeon running from the room, and concern washed over him. _

_The chief surgeon turned to Kramer. "Sergeant, where is Lieutenant Adams going?"_

"_Don't know exactly, sir. He said something about looking for Jimmy Langdon though, said he hadn't seen him in quite some time."_

"_You handle things here, Kramer."_

"_Yes sir."_

_Wilkins walked quickly from the room, heading in the same direction Adams had gone. Kramer watched the man go, a nonplussed look covering his face. Adams had been warned what would happen if he went to Wilkins, and obviously a warning had not been enough to convince him that Confederate officers were true to their word. Maybe upon discovering what awaited him, Adams would become more controllable._

_Adams ran through the hallway, oblivious to the warnings of the gray-coats to stop. He rounded the corner by the room in which the union medical personnel bunked, and stopped cold, his heart racing as he looked through the open door. The gruesome sight of the young boy hanging by a rope from a crossbeam, his stomach gutted, innards hanging out slammed into Adams like a six-horse team. Blood slowly dripped down from the exsanguinated carcass of the youth, a huge puddle on the floor under him, most of the blankets nearby, soaked. The boy's tongue, swollen and black from asphyxiation, was sticking out of his mouth, his eyes bulging slightly from the violence of his death. The smell of blood and guts that had oxidized in the air reached his nostrils, and Adams fell to his knees, retching the entire contents of his stomach._

_Wilkins rounded the corner then, and saw the corpse hanging from the rafters. "Oh sweet Jesus..." He looked down at his assistant vomiting violently on the floor, and pulled the young man from the room, closing the door behind them. Trying to force his own spiraling emotions to stabilize, Wilkins knelt down, gently holding Adams. "Easy boy...easy..." But Doc couldn't stop the violent disgorging of his stomach, and all the chief surgeon could do was steady him. "Try and relax, son."_

_After a few minutes, the siege came to a halt, and Adams leaned back against his mentor, gasping for air. Wilkins pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across the young man's mouth._

"_It's okay, you're okay."_

_Adams shook his head, tears filling his eyes. "They killed him. They killed him and it's my fault."_

"_No," Wilkins said sternly, pulling the young surgeon's face toward his. "It was not your fault. And the guilty party will pay for it, I promise you that..."_

_Adams voice was sad and soft. "You promised me nothing would happen to Jimmy. Promises don't mean shit in a place like this, Dr. Wilkins..."_

_Several Confederates were standing nearby, including Carp. "Looks like everyone's lost a pet today, eh boys?"_

_The gray-coats laughed, and Wilkins had to hold tightly onto Adams who tried to break free._

"_Was it you, Carp?" Adams demanded._

"_What if it was ya stinkin' yankee, what're gonna do about it?"_

_Adams fought against Wilkins, but couldn't break from the larger man's strength. "Mark my words, Carp, if I find out it was you, I'll kill you with my bare hands."_

_Kramer appeared then and looked at Wilkins. "Captain?"_

_Wilkins shook his head and nodded toward the door. "In there. Jimmy's dead." He indicated Adams then, "Can you take him for me?"_

"_Sure."_

_Wilkins pulled Adams up, and Kramer took a hold of the young surgeon's arm. Wilkins stepped up to Carp. "You'd better pray that I don't find out it was you, Carp."_

_A momentary image of Johnson's bloody crotch filled Carp's mind and he felt the color drain from his face. "It weren't me, Dr. Wilkins. I swear I had nothin' to do with it."_

"_But you know who did," Adams spat, "You know, and you're gonna tell me..."_

_He struggled against Kramer, and Wilkins turned to the two men. "Kramer, take Adams to the infirmary wing and see that he calms down; and don't let him out of your sight."_

"_Yes sir." Wilkins stalked from the area, and Kramer turned to Adams. "Come on, Doc." Adams walked with Kramer, and Roy could feel the anger surging inside of the young doctor; he was in exactly the frame of mind Kramer had wanted him in. "Wilkins'll get to the bottom of it."_

"_It should never have happened."_

_Kramer stopped Adams with a hand on his arm and turned to face him. "All due respect, lieutenant, but when are you gonna wise up on this place? The only way to survive here is to go along, not cause any hoorah, mind your own business..."_

"_Is that what you do, sergeant? Is that how you fall asleep at night?"_

"_Look, Doc, you keep ragin' against the rebs and they're gonna kill ya, sure and plain."_

"_If I can take a few of them with me, Kramer, it might just be worth it."_

"_Ones like Carp ain't worth nuthin'... Oh, he mighta killed Jimmy maybe, but he ain't worth nuthin'..."_

_Adams grabbed Kramer's lapel. "What do you know about Jimmy, Kramer?"_

"_Easy Doc, I don't know nuthin' 'bout it, I swear on my mama's grave."_

_Adams glared at him for a long moment, and then wordlessly, he turned around and headed back down the hallway. But instead of going after him, Roy Kramer just smiled; this was all turning out even better than he had envisioned. Adams would march down that hallway, make a move against Carp and get himself killed. And all Kramer had to tell Wilkins was that Adams had lost it and broke away from him. Getting rid of Adams was much better than wrestling control of him in the long run; Wilkins would return to the docile and hollow shell of a man he was before the assistant surgeon came to Libby, and the men would be once again without a strong leader except for Kramer himself. The only downside was the fact that he hadn't discussed it with Voss first, but in the end, he doubted the major would have a problem with the elimination of one yankee surgeon._

_Wilkins was supervising the clean up of the room when he heard a commotion behind him, and to his horror, he saw Adams violently grab Carp's musket, shoving the man into the wall, and using the handle of the rifle to punch him first in the stomach and then an upper cut to the chin, he knocked the man to the floor. As another soldier approached him to stop him, Adams hit him hard across the face with the musket butt, followed by a solid punch in the nose with his right hand. The young surgeon reached for the guard's pistol, and the next guard that approached him was put into a stranglehold, the gun placed tightly against the man's carotid artery._

"_Adams! No! Son, I promise you, as God is my witness, that I will find out who did this and he will be punished; but this isn't the way, boy. You're just gonna get yourself killed."_

_But it was too late. "I'm sorry Dr. Wilkins," Adams said, "but for as decent as you've been to me, we're on opposite sides of this war, and I've got to handle this my way. I promised that boy he'd be safe and I broke my word, and now I owe it to Jimmy to see that the men who mutilated him pay for it." He tightened his grip on the young private in his arms, the knuckles on his right hand turning white from gripping the gun so tightly. "You're gonna tell me, private, who killed that boy. And you're gonna tell me right now, or I'm gonna blow a ball of percussion right through your throat."_

"_Please...Adams...I don't know...Dr. Wilkins, please help me," the young private cried._

_Adams had to close his eyes briefly against the frightened tone of the young man he was holding, the action of violence going against every fiber in Adams' being. But he owed it to Jimmy._

"_I'm running out of patience. You know who did this; all you rebs've gotta know."_

_At least ten guards were now in the hallway, guns trained on Adams, and Wilkins felt his heart drop into his shoes. "Adams, come on boy, you need to listen to me now--"_

"_--No, I don't need to listen to you. I listened to you before, and..." He couldn't verbalize what had been done to the young boy, and the sentence choked off in his throat._

_Adams tightened his grip and leaned into the young private's ear. "You're as good as dead, if you don't start talking..."_

* * *

Kitty had just finished adding the egg shells to the pot and putting it on the heat when she felt the cold steel against her neck and the sound of a pistol cocking in her ear. She froze, not understanding how anyone could have come up behind her. She recognized the deep voice immediately, although the cold quality permeating it sent a chill through her bones. 

"You're as good as dead, if you don't start talking..." She tried to turn to look at him, but he shoved her head away roughly.

"Doc, what are you doing? You're hurting me..."

"I'm gonna do a lot worse than that if you don't tell me the truth."

Her breath became uneven as her heart began to pound in her chest. "D-doc...Doc, please, put the gun down."

"I have no intention of puttin' this gun down until you tell me what I want to know." She didn't move a muscle, nor did she dare to breathe, terrified of a man she loved deeply. He grabbed her hard then, from behind, wrapping his left arm around her neck, in a choke hold, moving the cold barrel of the gun to her neck. Kitty slammed her eyes shut in terror. "I'm losing patience with you. You'd better tell me who did it."

"W-who d-did what?"

He pulled his arm up sharply, causing her throat to constrict. "Don't play games with me. Jimmy's dead, and that's exactly what you're gonna be if you don't come clean."

"J-jimmy? Doc...who's Jimmy?"

She felt the gun pressing into her throat and she wanted to scream, but his arm was choking her throat off making any kind of loud sound impossible.

"He was just a boy, barely fifteen years old. I promised him he'd be all right; I promised." His voice was filled with an emotion that Kitty couldn't place but caused her heart to ache for him, "He was just a boy..."

The door to the office opened then and Dillon walked in.

"Matt!" Kitty yelled.

At the sound of the alarm in her voice, Dillon dropped the food in his hand and pulled his gun, but he wasn't prepared for the sight which awaited him: Doc was holding his .36 caliber Navy at Kitty's throat, and he looked less than rational. The marshal of Dodge froze, and the two men stared at each other for what seemed to Kitty like an eternity.

Finally Dillon spoke, "Doc," he said cautiously, "Doc, it's Matt. Put the gun down."

"You're just like all the others..."

Matt looked hard into the pale blue eyes, but there was nothing recognizable of the man he knew in them. "Doc, please put the gun down. Please don't make me shoot you."

"No sir. I will not put the gun down until somebody tells me who killed Jimmy."

Dillon glanced in confusion over at Russell. "Kitty?"

"I d-don't know, Matt. He came up from behind me, I never even heard him. And I have no idea what he's talkin' about."

"Shut up!" Adams yelled as he yanked hard on her throat with his left arm. "Just shut-up or I'm gonna blow a hole the size of my fist in your neck."

Kitty began to cry. "Doc...Doc, please..."

Her fearful sobs tore at the innermost depths of Doc's soul, and a frown creased his brow. Matt caught the slight change and tried to capitalize on the tiny sliver of recognition.

"Doc...that's Kitty you've got in your arms. It's Kitty you're holdin' a gun to; it's Kitty who's cryin', Doc. You're scaring her to death, you need to set the gun down and let her go."

Doc's eyes filled with torment, and Matt could see the confusion that gripped the old doctor. Adams pulled her closer to him, tightening his arm around her neck even more, making breathing extremely difficult for her.

"Doc," Matt's voice was tense, "let her go. Please don't make me do anything that we're both gonna regret. _Please_ Doc..."

And the door to the office opened then as Chester barged in. "Mr. Dillon, I been lookin' all over Dodge for--"

Dillon took advantage of the distraction, and grabbed Doc's gun hand, pulling it toward him, sending Kitty in the other direction as Adams had no choice but to let go. Matt slugged the old doctor hard in the jaw as he twisted the gun in his hand free, sending it clattering to the floor. Doc started to fall backward, but Dillon caught him, pulling the old man into himself, pinning his arms down at his sides.

"Kitty? You all right?" She nodded and Dillon looked at Goode. "Chester, see to Kitty for me for a few minutes, I'm taking Doc into the other room."

Kitty's voice sounded alarmed, "Matt...don't hurt him. He doesn't know what he's doin'..."

Matt's lips pursed tightly together and his teeth were clenched. "Yeah, I know. I'm not gonna hurt him, but I am gonna try and snap him out of this."

Chester limped over toward Kitty as Matt hustled the struggling doctor into the back room, closing the door behind him.

"M-miss Kitty, would ya like a glass of water?"

"Yes, thanks, Chester."

He poured some water from a pitcher into a glass and handed it to her. "Are ya all right?"

She sipped the water and said, "Yes, I think so."

Goode glanced behind them at the closed door, then back at her. "Wull what in tarnation's gotten inta Doc man-handlin' you like that..."

Kitty's eyes were colored with sadness. "Chester, Doc didn't know what he was doin'..."

"But surely he'd know you, Miss Kitty, and Mr. Dillon..."

She shook her head. "Chester, he didn't recognize us at all. I don't know who he thought we were, but...the man who was in here wasn't anything like Doc."

"W-what do you suppose Mr. Dillon's gonna do?"

"I don't know."

"He's awful upset, Miss Kitty; I ain't never seen Mr. Dillon this mad before..."

"I haven't either, Chester."

"This is just awful, Miss Kitty," Chester's big brown eyes were filled with sorrow. "It's just plumb awful."

Kitty nodded but didn't say anything. She looked over toward the door to the back bedroom and prayed that Matt wouldn't lose his temper, and that Doc would come to his senses. But somehow she knew it wasn't going to be that easy...


	9. Chapter 9

Matt shoved the struggling doctor into the chair by the bed, leaning his hands onto its arms, pinning the old man down.

"Doc," Dillon growled, "you've gotta snap outta this. That was Kitty you were holdin' a gun to out there, do you hear me? It was Kitty!"

Adams glared at the young man, confusion peppering his pale blue eyes, but he said nothing.

Matt shook Doc hard by the arms. "Say something, damn you! Tell me what's wrong."

But Doc Adams could no more explain his behavior to Matt than he could understand that he was in Dodge, far away from Libby Prison and the Civil War.

Dillon shook him again, even harder. "Doc, damnit...say something to me!"

_Adams remained silent, but glared up at the big major who had him pinned to the wall. The only thing they could do to him now was kill him; it was all that was left._

"_You'd better say something, Dr. Adams," Voss said._

"_I don't really care, Voss, there's nothing left to do except kill me. So just go ahead and do it, I don't care about any of it anymore." _

_Voss backhanded the young man across the face with his fist. "By the time I'm finished with you, Adams, you'll certainly wish that you were dead."_

_But defiant in his demeanor, Adams only stared at the major._

_Voss struck him again, hard in the ribs, then pulled his head back by his curly hair. "Why did you kill that young boy, lieutenant?"_

_The pale eyes looked at Voss, horror-stricken. "W-what?"_

"_Why did you kill him? He was just a boy...one of your own litter-bearers. Why'd you do it?"_

_Wilkins stood behind Voss, his voice cold, "Adams has been in the infirmary since early this morning. He had nothing to do with the death of Jimmy Langdon, major, and you know it."_

_Voss glared back at Wilkins. "I'm doing the talking, doctor, and I'll thank you to stay out of it."_

_Wilkins stepped closer. "But major, you can't--"_

_On Voss' signal, two guards grabbed Wilkins from behind, holding him tightly by the arms. In response, Adams pushed against Voss, trying to break away, and the major smiled._

"_So, my young yankee, you do still care about something..."_

_Adams swallowed hard, knowing he couldn't stand by and see anything happen to Wilkins; but he had to test the major's resolve. "You aren't gonna kill one of your own, Major Voss; don't play me for a fool."_

"_Who said anything about killing him?" Voss looked over at Wilkins then. "Dr. Wilkins understands the sacrifices and hard tactics we must employ to win this war, don't you, John?" Voss looked back at Adams. "Captain Wilkins will gladly consider it his honor to help us do whatever we have to do to get your cooperation, even if that means suffering a few bumps and bruises."_

_Voss nodded to the guards and while two held Wilkins still, Carp punched him hard across the face, splitting his lip. Smiling, the gray-coat reared back and landed a blow in the captain's abdomen, followed by an upper cut to the jaw. As blood began to drip down the old man's face, Adams couldn't bear it._

"_All right, Voss," he said quickly, "you win. You don't need to hurt him." Voss smiled, but let it continue, causing Adams to flinch with each blow as if he was receiving it. "Stop it! I'll do whatever you want, just stop beating him!"_

_The major nodded at the guards and they dropped Wilkins' body to the floor. Voss looked hard into the pale blue eyes of the young lieutenant. "You will sign a confession admitting the murder of that young litter-bearer." He allowed the words to sink in, enjoying the look of horror on Adams' face. "You'll spend the next three months in the hole, Adams, and you'll sign that confession."_

_Wilkins groaned and looked up through a bloody-haze. "No," he managed to say, "Voss, that's too cruel..."_

"_Sorry John, but I should have nipped this overprotective streak of yours in the bud; you're far too attached to this boy for your own good, much less for the good of our cause."_

"_He's a talented surgeon--"_

"_--Surgeon? You treat him like a surrogate son. You know I'm right, John, and as a Confederate officer, you must understand it." Voss glared at Adams. "Well, lieutenant?"_

"_What guarantee do I have that you won't harm Dr. Wilkins once I've given you what you want?"_

"_My word as an officer in the Confederate Army, and as a gentleman of the South._

_Adams spat on the floor. "That's worthless."_

_The young surgeon braced himself as Voss' arm reared back to strike him again._

Matt slapped Adams hard across the face. "Doc, snap out of this!"

Adams spat blood out on the floor, but remained silent. Dillon shook his head; he couldn't knock whatever hallucination Adams was living from the man's mind without causing serious damage. As it was, the big marshal never meant to draw blood, and seeing it on Adams' face made the lawman feel sick. Gently he reached down to wipe the trickle from the corner of Doc's mouth, but the small man turned his head away.

Dillon let out a sigh of air. "Aw Doc, I just don't know what to do." He brushed his thumb over the corner of Adams' mouth, wiping it clean. He knelt next to the chair then, taking Doc's hand into his own. "Doc, it's me, it's Matt." But there was no recognition in the pale blue eyes. Dillon put his other hand over Adams', tears welling up in his eyes. "Doc--"

But Matt's voice broke off, his heart breaking with it. There didn't seem to be any way to reach the old man, and Dillon could no longer trust him. He stood and gently pulled the doctor up by the arm.

"Come on, Doc..."

Adams looked up at him then. "Are you taking me to the hole now?"

Matt frowned. "I'm taking you over to the jail, Doc, for your own good I've gotta put you where I know you can't hurt yourself or anyone else."

Adams didn't say another word as Dillon led him out of the bedroom and into the office. Kitty and Chester looked up as Matt walked out with Adams.

Kitty frowned, her voice soft and questioning, "Matt?"

"There's nothing else I can do, Kitty. I can't take a chance that he'll hurt himself or someone else."

Chester swallowed hard. "You ain't gonna lock him up, are ya Mr. Dillon? You cain't do that to Doc...he ain't some kinda criminal ya know..."

Dillon clenched his teeth. "I don't have a choice, Chester."

"Oh Matt," Kitty said, "no..."

His eyes bore into her crystal blue ones. "I don't want to, Kitty, but I can't take a chance on a repeat of what happened a little while ago; you should be able to understand that better than anybody."

"He wouldn't have hurt me, Matt."

"You don't know that, Kitty."

And that truth hurt her more than anything else he could have said. The three of them let an awkward silence hang in the room, and when he finally spoke, Matt's timbre was filled with a desperate sadness that stabbed Kitty in the heart.

"Maybe being confined in a jail cell will jolt some sense into him...I just don't know what else to do."

"If you're gonna kill me, why don'tcha just get it over with?" Doc asked. "I'll never understand why you rebs enjoy killin a man slow. It just ain't humane..."

Matt stuffed down the shock of his friend's words, despite the fact that they had struck him in the chest as surely as a blow. "No one's gonna hurt you, Doc, I promise you that."

Adams glared at him, growling, "Promises of a Confederate ain't worth a plug nickel unless it's a promise to inflict harm."

"Mr. Dillon," Chester said, "what's he talkin' about?"

Matt shook his head. "I don't know, Chester. I have no idea what's going on in that head of his." He put a soft hand around Doc's shoulder then. "Come on, ol' boy, let's go."

_**

* * *

April 1863**_

_The shaft of light that shone into the dark hole he'd been confined to for longer than he could remember hurt his pale eyes. He covered his face with his arm and momentarily felt several hands lifting him upward. He began to scream, the recollection of the last time guards had pulled him from his incarceration vividly slamming into him._

"_Shut up, blue-coat," a man said. "Stop yer screamin' or I'll put a bullet in you."_

"_Jesus he smells," a voice said._

"_You git locked in a hole fer three months and see how you smell, Markey," said another voice._

_He felt himself hoisted up and then dumped on a wooden floor. Instinctively he curled up into a ball, an arm still covering his eyes, a slight whimper escaping his quivering lips._

"_All right, doctor," the first voice said, "he's all yours."_

_Adams felt strong but caring hands trying to pry his arm from his face. "No," Adams cried, "no please, don't touch me!"_

"_Easy boy," the soft familiar voice said, "it's all right now, I'm not gonna hurt you."_

_He forced himself to go slack then, instead of fighting; it was always much worse when he fought them. He let the hands pull his arm away, but he couldn't look into the brightness, and slammed his eyes shut against it._

"_Eyes hurt?" The soft voice asked, and Adams nodded, cringing. "That'll go away in a little while, you just ain't used to the light."_

_He felt two fingers at his wrist, and he realized his pulse was being taken. But then the fingers began to unbutton his shirt and he grabbed wildly at them, trying to stop them._

"_No, don't! Please..."_

_The hands stopped and the familiar voice said, "My God what have those bastards done to you, boy?"_

_And it was then that Adams placed the voice, but it was too much to hope for. "Dr. Wilkins?" He asked softly._

"_Yes, Adams, it's Wilkins." A relief-filled sob choked out from the young surgeon's throat as he grasped the front of the old doctor's shirt, and Wilkins pulled him into his chest holding him tightly. "It's all right, son, just let it go."_

_After a minute or two, Wilkins pat the young man's back and carefully picked him up, noting how light he was from weight-loss. "Let's get you cleaned up, boy, and then I'll take a better look at the damage that's been done, at least on the outside."_

_He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, only that it felt good to be able to rest stretched out on a cot, and not folded into a ball in a four by four foot hole in the ground. He felt the weight on the edge of the canvas bunk, and his eyes snapped open in terror. Wilkins put a calming hand on his shoulder._

"_It's all right, boy, it's just me."_

_As Adams' eyes slowly came into focus, he saw the battered face of the doctor who looked like he had aged ten years in three months. He reached to touch the scar on the man's cheek, but the old doctor caught his hand, preventing it._

"_It's nothing, son." He set Adams' hand down and said gently, "You wanna tell me about it?"_

_The young man shook his head and the chief surgeon pat his shoulder. "Maybe you'll feel like talking in awhile. You go ahead and get some more sleep for now."_

_Wilkins stood to leave, but the young man grabbed his hand tightly._

"_What is it, boy?" Adams couldn't meet the surgeon's eyes, so the old doctor gently tilted his head with a finger under his chin. "You scared?" Adams nodded and Wilkins sat back down. "I'll sit with you 'till you fall asleep." Relief welled up in the pale eyes, and Wilkins pat the young man's hand. "You never broke did you, boy? Voss never got what he wanted." Wilkins smiled, and said, "I'm proud of you, son." And the old doctor looked away then. "But I'm ashamed of myself. I'm ashamed to be a Confederate officer."_

_Adams took the old man's hand. "You're not like them, and I'm guessing that there are a lot more men in gray like you, than there are like the ones guarding Libby Prison."_

"_You're a good boy, Adams. And you're right; the confederacy tends to assign the bottom of the barrel to this kind of duty. The smart, trustworthy men are needed to fight, leaving the prisons to be run by a lot of sick, abusive men, or old men like me who can't fight." He looked into the sad eyes in front of him and saw a shimmer of something horrid flash in them for a brief moment. Wilkins gripped the hand in his tenderly. "I've heard the stories of what they do to the boys in the hole..." Adams sharply looked away, and Wilkins gently lifted his chin. "It's not your fault. Most don't make it out alive." _

_Adams' timbre was quiet, "There were many nights that I wished I was dead."_

"_But you had the strength to endure, boy, and that means you'll have the strength to face this head on and then put it behind you."_

_Adams wasn't so sure he would be able to overcome the feelings of distrust, violation and pure hatred that now permeated his heart; not in a year, maybe not in a thousand. "I'm not sure that I'll ever come to terms with any of it."_

_The old doctor looked at the young surgeon sadly. "I hope for your sake that you're wrong boy. You can run from it for now, but someday, it'll catch up to you."_

"_Maybe," the young man agreed, "but then again, maybe God owes me one."_

"_God gave you the gift of healing, son, he don't owe you nothin'..."_

* * *

Chester hovered over the coffee pot as if it would fall to pieces without his constant attention. Matt eyed him from his desk, but said nothing; he knew what was making his assistant unusually antsy. Kitty walked through the front door then, and Dillon stood. 

"Mornin' Kitty..."

"Howdy, Miss Kitty," Chester added with a false note of cheerfulness in his voice.

"Morning Matt, Chester..." She closed the front door and awkwardly stared at Dillon for a moment before speaking again. "I just came over to see how Doc's doin'..."

Matt pulled out a chair for her at the table, and she sat down, waiting for him to sit next to her. "He hasn't said a word since last night. He just sits on the cot in his cell, staring at nothing. We haven't been able to get him to eat or drink anything, and I don't think he slept at all. He just sits there."

"Have you heard from that man Johns Hopkins recommended, McGee?"

"Yeah. He can't get here until next week."

"Next week? We can't leave Doc like this for another week."

"I don't think we have a choice, Kitty."

"Did McGee include any kind of suggestions in his telegram, things we can try?"

"He said he's seen it before, from men who served in the war, but sometimes they snap out of it if something in their present jars them emotionally."

"Like what, I wonder..."

Dillon shook his head. "I don't know. But after what I saw last night, I think it might be too dangerous to try."

"We can't just let him suffer, Matt."

Trying to change the uncomfortable subject, Chester offered, "The coffee's ready. Miss Kitty, would you like a cup?"

"Sure, Chester, thanks." She smiled as he brought her a mug. "Has Doc had any?"

"Not yet, no. I was just gonna take him some."

Kitty stood then. "Let me."

Matt's voice held apprehension, "Kitty..."

"What can he do, Matt? There's nothing in the cell that he can use as a weapon."

"Physically he's a lot stronger than you are, don't forget."

"Please let me try. I'll leave the door open, and that way, if there's a problem, you can step in."

Matt's lips pursed together, as they always did when he didn't like something. "Don't get too close to him."

Kitty set her own cup down, took another mug of coffee, and walked into the back room. Adams didn't look up when she walked in, nor did he seem to notice her in any way. She offered the mug through the bars.

"Doc? How about a nice cup of coffee? Chester just made a fresh pot." He didn't stir, and after a minute, when he didn't take the cup from her, she pulled it back through the bars and held onto it with both hands, staring into the dark liquid. "It's not like you to turn down a free cup of coffee in the morning, Doc. You must be real preoccupied with somethin'..."

He continued to stare out of the bars, unseeing anything in the present. She looked down at his hands then, and noticed that his right hand had developed a tremor. Kitty stepped back out to the main room of the jailhouse, setting the cup of coffee on the table next to her own.

"Matt, give me the keys."

"No way."

"Give me the keys." She held his eyes, hers shining stubbornly with fire. "Please..."

"Why?"

"His hand is shakin' somethin' awful, Matt, I just want to try and calm him down. Maybe all he needs is to feel someone close to him."

He shook his head. "Kitty, we can't trust him. He's not the Doc we know."

"I refuse to believe that, Matt. Our Doc's in there, and we owe it to him to try and reach him."

Dillon could see she wasn't going to give up. He took the keys off the peg on the wall and handed them to her. "The door to the back room stays open, and so does the cell. If something happens, I want to be able to get in there quickly."

"Fine with me," she shrugged.

Kitty took the keys and walked into the back room. She unlocked the cell, but Doc didn't seem to notice. Leaving the door open, she stepped inside, setting the keys on the small table. Slowly she sat down next to him on the cot, and when he didn't react, she gently took his shaking hand into her own.

"Doc, it's me, it's Kitty." He neither moved nor made a sound, so she began to softly rub his hand between hers, keeping her voice low and calm. "You know, I'm gettin' pretty lonesome for you, handsome. I haven't had a single marriage proposal all week, and I'm a little tired of waitin' for you to make one. I'm startin' to wonder if you're two-timin' me..." She felt his hand relax, the tremor coming to a halt, and she gently grasped his right hand in her right, allowing her left to softly brush through the waves of curls on the back of his head. "I'm kinda worried about you, curly. You aren't eatin' too good, and I don't think you're really sleepin' either." She leaned in and softly kissed his stubbly cheek. "Sure wish I could make you feel better, Doc." Her voice grew sad, "It's not from a lack of wantin' to try." A tear spilt from his right eye then, rolling slowly down his cheek. She tenderly brushed it away. "You hear me, don't you? Somewhere in there, some part of you knows that I'm here, and that it's breaking my heart to see you like this." Another tear rolled down his face, and she pulled his head over to lean on her shoulder then. "I'm here, Doc." Her voice turned to a whisper as her fingers gently combed through his thick hair, "You just hold onto the fact that I love you, handsome."

She felt him nuzzle his face into her neck then, and she wrapped her arms tightly around him, holding him until his weight pressed heavily into her, indicating that he had finally fallen into a deep sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

_**July 13, 1863**_

_Adams carefully extracted the sliver of steel from the corporal's eyes, flushing it with watered down saline. Haskett winced._

"_I'm sorry, corporal," Adams said, "I know that stings, but if there's any chance to save this eye, we've gotta keep it clean."_

"_I understand, Doc," Haskett replied through clenched teeth._

_Adams covered the wounded eye with gauze and pat the corporal on the arm. "I'll check you in a few hours, see how you're doin'..."_

"_Thanks...hey, Doc?"_

"_Yes?"_

"_Can you tell me how Captain Jenkins is doin'?"_

_The pale blue eyes remained passive. "He a friend of yours?"_

"_My C.O...but yeah, he's a friend."_

_Adams shook his head, sadly. "I'm awful sorry, corporal, but I lost him." The pain in the dark brown eyes stabbed Doc so sharply he had to look away, muttering, "I'm sorry..."_

"_I'm sure you tried your best, Doc."_

"_Well yes, yes I did. Doesn't make it hurt less though, knowing that, does it..."_

"_No. No, it doesn't."_

"_Get some sleep," Adams ordered, patting the man on the shoulder. "I'll be back later."_

_But instead of resting, Haskett spent the afternoon observing the young doctor as he moved from bunk to bunk, saving some lives and losing others; Haskett noted how hard Adams fought for every man, and how mournful he looked when he lost. It was of little comfort to Haskett in terms of Jenkins, but he was sure that a man like Adams would have given it his all. He also felt confident that if his eye could be saved, this was the doctor who could do it. _

_A passing sergeant noticed him looking out over the room and asked, "Everything okay, corporal?"_

"_Yeah," Haskett answered, "just watching that young doctor over there."_

_Kramer followed the man's gaze. "You mean Doc Adams?"_

"_That his name?" Kramer nodded, then Haskett said, "Sure fights hard to save the men."_

"_Uh-huh. He tends to be a favorite of all the boys in blue."_

_For an odd moment, Haskett thought he read something other than admiration in the sergeant's eyes and tone, but all he said was, "I can see why."_

"_He gonna fix that eye fer ya?"_

"_He's gonna try," Haskett answered._

"_Get some rest, corporal."_

_Haskett watched Kramer head off in another direction, but something about the man didn't sit well with Corporal Tom Haskett at all..._

* * *

"_Dr. Wilkins?"_

_The captain turned to see the young lieutenant standing in the doorway of the tiny room that passed for the chief surgeon's office. He smiled and motioned for Adams to enter._

"_What is it, lieutenant?"_

"_Do you have a few minutes?"_

"_Sure, what's on your mind?"_

_The small doctor sat down in the chair next to Wilkins, and the older man could see that something was behind the pale blue eyes. Yet Adams hesitated to say anything. Wilkins let the silence lie, knowing the young man would say something when he was ready._

"_Do you ever get used to it?"_

"_To what?"_

"_Losing them."_

_Wilkins stared into the young surgeon's eyes. "Death is a part of doctorin' son. You're gonna save some, you're gonna lose some - you already know that." He put a soft hand on Adams' shoulder. "And no, I don't think any doctor worth his salt gets used to it. You have to learn to separate yourself from the emotions of it though, or it'll destroy you."_

"_I don't know if I can do that," Adams admitted quietly._

_Wilkins nodded. "It's one of the toughest lessons to learn for a young surgeon; but you have to find some kind of immunity to the pain and suffering or you won't be of much help to anyone."_

_Adams studied the old man for a few minutes, then finally asked, "Why?"_

"_Why, what, boy?"_

"_Why do you stay here? You could choose where you want to serve - why such a god awful place as this?"_

_Wilkins smiled gently. "Adams, as a doctor you have to go where you're most needed." His eyes held the pale blue ones across from him over the rim of his glasses. "Sometimes it's the same as a man."_

_Adams frowned, not understanding. "But I don't--"_

_Wilkins stopped him with a hand on his knee and pulled out his pocket watch. "It's late, boy, and you've had a long day." He stared hard then into the intense sea blue. "You're not always meant to understand everything that happens around you; there are times when the answers you seek will make themselves plain enough when it's your time to know."_

_An impish grin tugged at the corners of Doc's mouth. "You have a date with her, don't you? With Miss Van Lew?"_

_Wilkins swatted Adams. "That's none of your business, you young whelp. Now go to bed!"_

_Chuckling, Adams stood and walked to the door. "I hope someday that I'm half the doctor you are...and that I have the prettiest girl in town chasing after me when I'm old and dodderin'!"_

"_Out!"_

_Laughing Adams closed the door as he exited the room._

"_Somethin' tells me you'll have several...young whelp..."_

_

* * *

Kramer tried not to fidget under the major's scrutiny. "How many months is it going to take to root out how the union is passing information from this prison to behind the lines, Kramer?"_

"_Well I--"_

"_--I'm getting a lot of pressure, sergeant, from the top; they don't understand why we can't handle a few thousand union soldiers and plug this leak."_

"_Major, I assure you this has been my top priority."_

"_And with no better results..."_

"_Sir, there has been no contact between any yankees and outsiders, with the exception of Elizabeth Van Lew when she brings food."_

"_What about Wilkins?"_

"_Major, Dr. Wilkins has not left this prison nor has he had any visitors since he started his service here."_

"_What about Adams?"_

"_For as much as we'd both like to see that yankee shot as a spy, he's been almost a model prisoner since his time in the hole." Kramer looked down then. "He's had a lot of nightmares for the past few months though..."_

_Voss smiled. "Yes, the ones who survive the hole usually come out with no fight left in them, and riddled with night sweats and vivid dreams. So Adams has been subdued...at least we managed that; the little bastard never did break down enough to confess to killing Jimmy Langdon." He looked hard at Kramer. "But then, we both know who did that."_

"_The guards went well beyond your instructions regarding Adams when he was in the hole."_

"_What makes you say that?"_

"_He relives some of it in his sleep, and what they did to him, no man should have to endure, major, not even a yankee."_

"_That's where you're wrong, Kramer. Blue-coats aren't human beings, they're animals, and should be treated accordingly."_

"_Major Voss...the kind of abuse Adams suffered is indecent. I wouldn't treat a slave that way, much less a white man - even a yankee."_

_Voss laughed. "Coming from you, Roy, that's quite amusing after what you did to the Langdon boy."_

"_Killing an enemy even viciously is one thing; what your men did to Adams, that's something else."_

"_No matter. The fact that he's having nightmares about it is a good sign; it's wearing on him."_

"_I'd rather we just kill him, major."_

"_A dead yankee doctor is no use to us; alive, with the right type of coercion, we might yet get him to tell us who among them is passing information and how. All the men talk to him; they trust him. He knows who it is, I'm sure of it, and now that we've convinced him that the worst days are behind him, we pull the rug out from under him. He'll break yet."_

_Kramer had few scruples as a man or as a soldier, but what Voss was planning made him feel the slightest bit sorry for Adams..._

_Hours later, Kramer was just nodding off to sleep when three guards quietly entered the room where the union medical personnel slept. One of them held a lantern and the other two burly men located Adams, pulled him from the floor and covered his mouth to keep him quiet. Kramer watched as the small doctor, probably recognizing the guards and knowing what they planned to do to him, struggled in vain against men who were twice his size. _

_Kramer swallowed hard: not even a stinking blue-coat deserved what Voss was doing to Adams. The confederate laid in the dark for the rest of the night, unable to find a corner of his mind that wasn't screaming at him to put a stop to it. But to act against Voss was suicidal. Kramer shrugged; perhaps it was too late in life for him to develop a conscience._

_**

* * *

July 20, 1863**_

_The sergeant observed the young doctor during breakfast noting that he had become unusually silent over the past week, and didn't eat a single bite of the gruel in his bowl. Kramer put a soft hand on Adams' shoulder, only to cause the man to recoil._

"_Doc...take it easy," Kramer said, "You're awful jumpy this mornin'..."_

"_Didn't sleep well," Adams replied curtly._

_The young surgeon abruptly picked up his untouched food, dumped the dishes with the KP men and headed toward the infirmary._

"_What's eatin' the Doc?" O'Sullivan asked, "He's been like this for about a week now..."_

"_Don't know," Kramer lied, "don't know..."_

_The sergeant dumped his own dishes and walked toward the infirmary. There were many things Kramer was willing to do in the name of the South, to win the war, he'd killed countless blue-coats and he'd kill thousands more given the chance: but perpetrating unnaturally vile acts on prisoners wasn't acceptable somehow. He shook his head; there was nothing to be done. Yet throughout the day, as he observed how gentle and kind Adams remained with the all the wounded, despite the living hell Kramer knew the man had been subjected to, everything he had been taught to believe about the north and its people was suddenly in question._

"_Damn this war anyway..."_

"_What was that, sergeant?" Wilkins asked._

"_Uh, nothing sir, nothing. Sorry..." The man replied as he moved off to roll bandages._

_Haskett watched the sergeant grappling with some unseen enemy within from several feet away. Kramer was hiding something for certain; but now he seemed to be at odds with whatever it was that he was up to. The corporal continued to squint with his one good eye, observing the sergeant attending to his duties. It was all very curious..._

_

* * *

Adams gently examined Haskett's eye. "Well Tom, it's lookin' mighty good. How does it feel?"_

"_A lot better, Doc, thanks."_

_Adams ran a soft thumb over the stitches. "We should be able to take these out in a couple of days."_

_He stood to go and Haskett said, "Doc, how well do you know Sergeant Kramer?"_

_Doc shrugged. "'Bout as well as anyone I guess. Why?"_

_Haskett took a deep breath. "I've noticed he keeps a pretty close eye on you."_

_Doc chuckled. "Apparently he's not the only one."_

"_Lyin' here day after day, I ain't got nothin' better to do. It ain't that, Doc."_

"_Well what is it for heaven's sake?"_

"_There's somethin' not right about him."_

_Adams pat the man on the shoulder. "We need to find you somethin' else to do all day, Tom; you're seein' the enemy where he ain't!"_

"_Just...just keep your eyes open, Doc." Adams' mind darted to his own week of horror, and wondered if Kramer had seen the guards drag him out during their nightly visits. The young surgeon's body was covered with bruises and cuts, the rewards of trying to fight them off. And the thought of any of the men discovering what the gray-coats were doing to him made him sick, and he shivered slightly. "Doc," Haskett said, "you all right?"_

"_Yeah, fine. I'll check on you later, Tom."_

_Haskett nodded and watched Adams move to the next patient. The Doc had seemed outwardly fine, but for the past week Haskett had sensed something was troubling him. But then, in a place as tightly wound as Libby, as long as a man was observant, nothing would stay covert for long; not Kramer's ghosts, and not the Doc's._


	11. Chapter 11

_**November 1863**_

"_Is everything all right, John? You seem preoccupied tonight."_

_Wilkins looked into the concerned young face of Elizabeth Van Lew and he smiled at her, patting her arm. "Everything's fine, Elizabeth." She looked at him skeptically and he added. "The men have begun work on the tunnel, it'll proceed according to the schedule we received."_

"_Voss still suspects nothing?"_

_He shook his head. "Why should he? I'm just a docile old doctor who does his work at the hospital, and has a weekly visit for tea with a pretty young thing. He might suspect that I'm a dirty old man, but--"_

"_--But he wouldn't expect an old southern gentleman and a young belle from a privileged family to be aiding the union - I see what you mean. Did you get any information from the injured men who came in this afternoon?"_

"_The major in charge of the regiment said the confederate army is weakening in both supplies and men, and that in his opinion, Grant should continue his push southwest."_

_She nodded. "I'll be sure and pass that along tomorrow morning." She brushed her fingers through his white hair. "Something is bothering you John, what is it?"_

_He stood, and sliding his hands into his pockets, he began to pace. "My assistant surgeon, Adams..."_

"_Well, what about him?"_

"_Voss doesn't suspect me, but I think he does suspect the young lieutenant, and judging how sullen the boy has become in the past months, I think Voss' men have been trying to get to him."_

"_Have you asked him about it?"_

"_Of course, he insists there's nothing wrong. But he's become so withdrawn, except when he's with his patients." The old man shook his head. "I shudder to think about what they might be doin' to him, Elizabeth."_

"_Beating him, I should imagine."_

"_They've tried that before. Voss hasn't been able to break that young man yet."_

"_Dr. Adams doesn't know anything about our operation, does he?"_

"_No. But Voss might think that Adams knows something; the boy has contact with all of the union soldiers who come through the hospital."_

"_We've been so careful, how would Voss suspect that there are union spies operating out of Libby?"_

_He looked at her. "That's the four-thousand dollar question, Elizabeth. We might not be the only ones acting covertly."_

"_I suppose it wouldn't be too hard for Voss to plant a man as a union prisoner..."_

"_Except that the other boys wouldn't know such a man, and I can't recall one soldier who's passed through Libby who hasn't known at least one other man in his unit."_

"_You're sure of the men on the tunnel detail?"_

"_They're mostly high-ranking union officers; men whose identification and integrity cannot be questioned; and they are men who have the most information and expertise to carry back behind the line."_

"_If the confederates were to find out--"_

"_--It would be a bloodbath." He sat next to her, taking her hand. "I'll see to my tunnel detail, don't worry, but I need you to do me a favor."_

"_Of course."_

"_When you visit the prison tomorrow, bring some medical supplies. I'll arrange not to be available, and--"_

"_--And I'll have a conversation with your assistant." She sighed. "The things I do in the name of what's right in the world..."_

_He kissed her cheek. "That's what I adore about you, honey, beautiful, smart and savvy."_

"_Go on, or someone might think we're doing something more than just having tea. I have to protect my reputation as an impeccable southern belle, you know."_

_He smiled at her, put his hat on, and went out the door. But the smile faded as he walked the quarter of a mile back to Libby. Elizabeth had brought up a good point: what if Voss had planted a spy in their midst? A lot of lives were dependent upon silence. If there was a confederate man amongst the union boys, Wilkins would have to root him out, and quickly._

_

* * *

Elizabeth handed the young man the box of medical supplies. "I think you'll find a lot of medicines in there that are hard to come by."_

"_Yes, thank you, Miss Van Lew, we appreciate your kindness very much."_

_She noted the slight smile on his lips, which didn't match the look of cold austerity in his eyes. She grinned seductively at him, putting on her best female charm. "Why Dr. Adams, most of the men call me Elizabeth."_

"_Yes ma'am." She stared intently into his eyes until he reluctantly added, "Elizabeth."_

"_That's oh so much better, doctor," she drawled, "might you have a christian name as well?"_

_He didn't care for the question, but he said, "Most people just call me Doc."_

"_Well you can't tell me you were born with that name."_

"_No ma'am, it's just what people call me."_

_She smiled politely, but wondered how she was going to crack the tough exterior he had erected. "Well then, Doc, aren't you going to offer me a chair and a cup of tea?"_

_He wasn't prepared for such a bold request. "Well, you see, ma'am...uhm, Elizabeth...I...I have to get back to my patients and--"_

"_--Why Dr. Adams," she pouted, "Dr. Wilkins always offers me a chair and a cup of tea on my visits. Have you forgotten your manners being locked up here, or do northerners just not have any?"_

_He bristled slightly then, and she was pleased that she managed a reaction. "I assure you, I was raised a gentleman, ma'am." Adams pulled a chair out for her, guiding her into it with a gentle hand on her elbow. "The tea will take a few minutes."_

"_I quite understand." She fluttered her large green eyes at him. "I don't think I mind so much, waiting for tea with a handsome, young surgeon."_

_His cheeks flushed red and he abruptly turned to put water on the stove to heat. After he prepared a pot with some tea leaves and set out two cups, he stood nervously facing her, his hands drawn behind his back._

"_Relax, Doc, while I tend to be a tad on the outspoken side, I assure you it ends there."_

"_Yes ma'am."_

_Elizabeth observed the young man as he stood almost at attention in front of her. His face was strong with broad cheeks and a determined chin, and it was well-framed by very dark, curly hair; although not a large man, she noted the pleasing build of his body, and imagined that before Libby, he was probably a fine specimen of manhood. And then there were his eyes: an intense pale blue that she was sure had sparkled among the charmed giggles of many young northern ladies. But now, they held the mournful sadness of a man who had seen too much. And Elizabeth Van Lew found herself both captivated and moved by him. After several minutes of study under her piercing gaze, Adams nervously cleared his throat._

"_Uh, the tea should be about ready."_

_She watched him pour it through an old strainer into the cups and then he offered her one. As she accepted the cup, she allowed her hand to brush along his, feeling the smooth softness of his skin. His eyes darted to hers and she smiled at him._

"_You can learn a lot about a man from his hands."_

_He sat next to her in a chair, holding his own cup. "I'm sure you can, ma'am," he answered nervously._

"_Yes." She set her cup down on the table and reached over, taking one of his hands in hers. He wanted to pull it back, but was so shocked by such bold behavior, he found he couldn't move. She brushed one of her hands over his palm, cradling the back of it in her other. "You see, your hands are wide and square, with thick, somewhat stubby fingers; that tells me they're very strong." She turned the hand over, brushing her fingers across the top of it. "They could be the hands of a farmer, but they're too soft and smooth; that tells me they've never been used for hard labor." Her eyes met his and she held his hand a moment longer before letting go. "But, a man's eyes, they tell more than anything else." He looked away, but she gently pulled his face back toward her with a hand on his cheek. "Yours used to be light and vivid, but now they're filled with sadness."_

_Uncomfortable with her scrutiny and physical proximity, he broke away from her, standing to put distance between them, further breaking her spell. "I intend no offense, Miss Van Lew, but this behavior is far from proper."_

_She stood and walked over to him. "They do raise gentlemen in the North."_

"_I'm sorry Miss Van Lew, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave now. Dr. Wilkins will be wondering where I am."_

_She smiled. "Is that what's made you so jumpy? There's nothing like that between John and me, we're just good friends." She reached up and ran her fingers through his curly hair. "You're quite handsome, you know, but whatever is troubling you so deeply is marring it. Won't you tell me what it is? You can trust me implicitly."_

_And then he understood. "He put you up to this, didn't he?" He glared at her as the anger rose in his throat. "Dr. Wilkins asked you to come in here and talk to me. I should have known when he said he was too busy to take delivery of supplies from you. He set me up."_

_Adams stalked to the door, and held it open for her. "Get out, Miss Van Lew, and tell Wilkins to just let sleeping dogs lie."_

_She stopped at the door and faced him. "You're right that John asked me to talk to you, but it was out of concern for you that he did so. And I meant what I said to you, Dr. Adams, all of it."_

_Elizabeth slipped out the door and made her way directly to the infirmary, leaving Adams to fume in his anger. She spotted Wilkins and went to him, pulling him into a quiet alcove. "He figured out that it was a set-up."_

"_Uh-oh."_

"_You can say that again, John, he's angrier than a wet hen on a Sunday."_

"_He didn't tell you anything, did he?"_

"_No, I'm afraid not - and I tried everything to open him up."_

_Wilkins inferred her meaning and frowned. "Whatever's troubling that boy, it must be mighty awful if he didn't fall prey to your feminine charms, Elizabeth."_

"_Well, it wasn't so awful for me; you didn't tell me he was so handsome."_

"_No, I didn't...I was plannin' on keepin' you to myself you know."_

_She swatted him. "Dirty old man!"_

_He winked at her. "And don't you forget it." The twinkle in his eyes quickly disappeared. "I'll go to him, maybe now that he's fit to be tied, I'll get it out of him." He smiled at her and pat her shoulder. "Thanks for trying."_

"_I'm sorry it didn't work."_

_She kissed him lightly on the cheek, and he watched her walk to the door, heaving a long sigh. His young assistant was going to be furious, and in a way, Wilkins couldn't blame him._

"_Damn this war."_

_

* * *

Wilkins walked into his small office to find Adams pacing like a caged animal. The old doctor barely got the door closed when the young men let loose._

"_How dare you send that young girl to do your dirty work. How could you put a woman into such a position, much less me? What in the hell were you thinking?" He stared hard into the old man's eyes, becoming frustrated when he didn't receive a response. "Say something, damn you!"_

_Wilkins moved further into the room. "What would you have me say? I've asked you what's wrong, and you keep telling me nothing; yet I can see that isn't true."_

"_That's no reason to--"_

_He grabbed the young man hard by the arms. "--Yes it is."_

_Adams fought off Wilkins' grip. "Let go of me," he growled._

_Wilkins frowned at the young surgeon's reaction. "Relax boy, I'm not gonna hurt you."_

"_I know that," Adams grumbled. "I...I just don't like being touched."_

_Cold fear slid down Wilkins' throat. "My God boy, what have they been doing to you?"_

"_Nothing! No one's done anything to me. Just leave it alone," the young man's anxiety was escalating. "I don't need your help, so just leave me be!"_

_Adams started past Wilkins, heading for the door, and the old surgeon had to make a snap decision: if he let him walk out, the boy might never accept help and the agony within would destroy him; but if he forced Adams to accept his aid, it could scar the young man forever. He decided it was better the boy survive. He grabbed the young surgeon's arms, pinning them to his sides, and Adams screamed as though Wilkins was going to kill him..._

Matt awoke to the most panic-stricken screams he could ever remember hearing. He bolted from his bunk, grabbing the keys to the cell on his way to the back room of the jail, with Chester right on his heels. Matt entered the small area and lit a wall lantern, hearing Goode's stunned voice as he turned.

"Oh my lands, Mr. Dillon..."

Matt looked in the back cell to see Adams scrunched up into a ball on the floor in the corner, his arms covering his head, screaming as though he was being physically tortured.

Chester felt a sting in his eyes. "Mr. Dillon...?"

Dillon forced his voice to sound calm, even though his heart had leapt into his throat, "Chester, go get Kitty, and tell her to bring a bottle of whiskey."

Goode swallowed hard. "Yes sir, right away."

Matt unlocked the cell door and cautiously stepped inside, unsure whether he should approach the terror-stricken man or not. But he couldn't stand to listen to his dearest friend's screams of horror. Swallowing down his own fear, Matt knelt next to Adams. He put a gentle hand on the man's shoulder, which resulted in the old doctor wailing even louder.

"Don't touch me... God, please, help me..."

Dillon's heart ached for the old man, and for a long moment, Matt was frozen, unsure of himself. But the lawman couldn't bear to see Doc tormented by some unseen threat that haunted him in his waking dreams. He pulled the terrified surgeon into his chest, holding him securely.

"Shhh, Doc, it's all right."

"No, please, don't..." Adams cried as he fought against the strength of the arms holding him down.

"Doc, it's Matt...it's Matt Dillon," he whispered. "You're safe, ol' boy." But Adams continued to struggle against him, and Matt felt the sting of tears welling up in his eyes. He put his hand behind Doc's head, whispering softly, "I can't stand this, Doc. God how I wish I could just take this pain from you." The stress in Matt's voice was palpable, "I can't even comfort you." And for the first time since he'd been a boy, tears of uncontrollable grief spilled down Dillon's cheeks, his body shaking from helplessness. "God why can't I just help you..."


	12. Chapter 12

_**February 14, 1864**_

_The cold seeped in through the walls and the floorboards as if they weren't there. Adams tossed in his sleep, unable to free his mind of the abuses he had suffered for as long as he'd been incarcerated at Libby Prison. That Voss despised him wasn't in question; but the lack of decency regarding the treatment of even an enemy officer was beyond Doc's understanding. Wilkins had managed to put a stop to the most dreadful part of the abuse once he had uncovered it, but the nightmares continued, as did the daily beatings. Voss was convinced that Adams had information about union spies in Libby, no matter how much the young surgeon swore he knew nothing about such goings on. Adams jolted awake then, panting from the vivid memories of the perverted maltreatment he suffered for so long. He sat up, holding a hand to the pain in his side; the guards had broken a rib during their earlier tossle._

_Wearily he stood up and quietly walked out the door, unaware that Kramer had been watching him._

_

* * *

After convincing the guard in the hall that he needed to see Wilkins for the pain in his left side, Adams approached the man's quarters. He knocked lightly, but there was no response. After another few knocks, Adams opened the door, peering inside to find the room empty. He headed toward the infirmary, but the doctor wasn't there either, and the assistant on duty hadn't seen him. Oblivious to the fact that Kramer was following him, Adams went to Wilkins' office, and knocked on the door. He thought he heard voices and some kind of shuffling noises, but then it was quiet, and momentarily Wilkins appeared in the doorway._

"_Adams? What's the matter?"_

"_I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Wilkins, but I think I've broken a rib. I just couldn't take the pain anymore."_

_Sighing, Wilkins pulled the young man inside the room, closing the door behind them. Kramer crept up to the door, and pressed his ear against the wood, listening._

"_Take that shirt off, boy." Adams did, but couldn't look Wilkins in the eye as the man observed the fresh bruises. "Damnit, son, I thought we agreed that you would tell me if they didn't stop this grievous manhandling."_

"_It's not as bad as it was before..." His blue eyes darted to his mentor's. "A few punches here and there; I've taken that lots of times."_

_Wilkins shook his head as he pressed on the young man's left side, causing Adams to grimace in pain. "I'm sorry, son, I know it hurts. It's a broken rib all right, two of 'em. I'll wrap it for ya." Wilkins began wrapping the ribs tightly with a bandage and scolded, "You should have told me."_

"_Voss thinks I know something about a union spy, so he keeps trying to beat it out of me; honestly Dr. Wilkins, I don't know what that man's talkin' about." Adams saw a flicker of something in Wilkins' eyes then; guilt perhaps, sadness, and the pieces suddenly fell into place. "Oh my God," Adams whispered. The two men stared at each other. "It isn't a union man at all...it's you."_

"_Now boy--"_

"_--It all makes sense. Why didn't you tell me?"_

"_I couldn't tell you anything. It was the only way to keep you, and hundreds of others, alive. As long as you were in the dark, no matter what Voss did, he couldn't make you talk." Anger flashed in the pale blue eyes and Wilkins added, "If there had been any other way..." His voice grew soft, and he pat the young man on the shoulder. "The work here at Libby is too important to risk for the safety of one man; I have to think of all the men, even if the young man in question is like a son to me." The young surgeon's eyes misted with tears, and Wilkins squeezed the shoulder under his hand. "Adams, the union is winning this war in part because of the information that is passed from regiment commanders here at Libby, back through the line; we can't let the process break down."_

"_But how are you getting the information north?"_

"_That's not important. What is important is that we continue the effort, do you understand?"_

"_Yes." He looked around the office. "I thought I heard voices and movement in here before..."_

_Wilkins looked down, and then into the intense blue eyes staring at him. "I suppose you have a right to know, you've earned it." Wilkins went to the bookcase that held his medical texts, and with some effort, slid it aside. Adams stood, astonished, gazing into a tunnel. "It's all right, men," Wilkins said into the darkness, "Adams is on board."_

_Several men Adams recognized as union soldiers he'd doctored over the past year and half poured out from the tunnel, and shook hands with him. Adams glanced back at Wilkins._

"_The brightest and the best of the captured boys in blue," Adams grinned, "And I assume, headed back to the north soon."_

"_Two nights from now, doctor, more than a hundred men will escape this hellhole," a major answered._

"_We've been working on this since last November," added Wilkins._

"_But how will you get them past the Mason-Dixon? Even if you can get them out of Libby, you'll need a man on the outside--" He stopped himself as the obvious truth hit him. "Elizabeth."_

"_Yes," Wilkins grinned, "She's our 'man' on the outside."_

"_Ingenious. Absolutely ingenious. No one would suspect either of you."_

"_No. And I'm sorry that you've taken so much of the heat, son." Wilkins looked at the other men. "We might have to make room for one more now."_

"_You comin' with us, Dr. Wilkins?" The major asked._

"_No, not me. I'm needed here. But, my young assistant might like to go home. I think he's given more than any army should expect from a man."_

"_Home?" Adams hadn't dared think or say the word in so long, it felt foreign on his tongue. "I could go home?"_

_Wilkins cuffed the young man behind the neck. "I think we owe it to you for providing the distraction of Voss' attention." Wilkins turned to the men. "Come on boys, you have some work to finish, and I'm going to fill in the boy here on the details..._

_

* * *

Kramer quietly crept back into the bunkroom and lie down on the floor, swallowing hard. His duty was clear: tell Voss about the tunnel and the pending escape. But despite the clarity, he floundered. Maybe he'd been undercover for too long, living amongst the union boys. Maybe it had caused him to start thinking like the enemy. _

_The enemy._

_Defining that wasn't so clear. He no longer felt that it was Adams or Wilkins. It felt more like Voss, Carp and the rest of the confederate men having mercilessly beaten and abused a young surgeon who had saved countless lives, union and confederate alike. And just like Wilkins, when it came to the wounded, Adams didn't see the color of uniform, nor the color of a man's skin - he just saw a man in need: were they the ones who were so wrong?_

_Kramer had been brought up to believe that people of colored skin were different, and possessed less value than whites, and northerners who wanted them freed were just as inferior. But working on his father's plantation as a boy, he hadn't seen evidence of so much difference, but rather, an evidence of similarity. He saw the slaves eat, bleed, or fall ill like any person might; and he saw the men take wives, and have families. He had seen them pray to God. Could their God be so different from his? Their children were taught right from wrong, the same as white children; they read from the same bibles, sang some of the same church songs, and enjoyed a celebration when they were allowed to have one. And it struck him that over the past year his eyes and ears had shown him a truth about the blue-coats other than the one he had been been taught to believe. The unions soldiers were not the cowardly, stupid simpletons of whom he had been told, but men of strong beliefs, courage and honor._

_What if it turned out to be the same with slaves? If he lived as one of them, would he find out that they feared God as strongly as white men; held faith as dearly; and loved as deeply? He shuddered to think that it could be true. If so, the damnation of his soul was guaranteed. Hell would be his for an eternity for what he'd done as a confederate soldier; but maybe, if he could offer one small act of redemption, perhaps God would take pity on him. Yet Roy Kramer had no idea how to go about performing such an act. _

_The hand on his shoulder made him start._

"_Kramer?" The pale blue eyes stared at him in the dark. "You okay?"_

"_Yeah, I'm fine." He swallowed hard then whispered, "Hey, Adams?"_

"_Yeah?"_

"_Do you think if a man's condemned to hell that he can turn some of it 'round by tryin' to do right once he realized he was wrong?"_

_Adams' brow furrowed. "I don't know, Roy. That's a question best left to a preacher." Adams could see the sadness in Kramer's eyes even in the shadows. "Well, maybe. Why?"_

"_I just haven't always done right."_

"_Believe me, Roy, doin' time in this place'll make up for a lot..."_

_But knowing his own duplicity, that truth didn't soothe Roy Kramer at all. "Yeah," was all he said._

* * *

Kitty quickly entered the back cell of the jail, with Chester in tow. Her voice indicated her deep concern, "Matt?" 

Dillon looked up at her, defeat filling his eyes. "I can't calm him down, I just don't know what to do..."

Kitty turned to Chester. "Go get four glasses, will ya?"

"Yes ma'am."

Kitty knelt next to the big lawman who was cradling the terrified doctor, and she cupped Dillon's cheek with her hand. "Before you can calm Doc down, you've gotta calm yourself down, cowboy."

He nodded, embarrassed. "I know. I'm just so frustrated by this helplessness."

"Let's get Doc on the cot, all right?"

The confidence in her demeanor and the quiet in her voice had a soothing effect on Dillon. He stood, hoisting the doctor up, gently lying him on the bunk. Matt practically fell into the chair next to it, and Kitty stood by him, softly rubbing the back of his neck.

"What happened, Matt?"

"He was in here screaming like someone was killin' him. Scared the hell outta me...and then I couldn't calm him down. He just doesn't know me."

"It's been tough for all of us, Matt, but think of how rough this has been on Doc."

"That's why I feel so damned bad."

Chester appeared with three glasses and a mug. "I couldn't find four glasses, I figured a mug'll do for poor ol' Doc...he looks like he needs a big slug of this whuskey anyway..."

Chester set the glasses and mug down on the little table in the cell, and Kitty poured whiskey in all of them. She picked up the mug and sat on the edge of the cot where Doc laid, conscious but not cognizant. She brushed a soft hand over his brow.

"Just relax, Doc. I'm gonna give you a shot of whiskey and I want you to drink it down." His eyes stared right through her, his muscles trembling in fear. Kitty gently picked up his head and held the mug to his lips. "Come on, Doc, take a sip." She poured a little onto his lips, and then he allowed her to pour more into his mouth. "That's it, Doc, just drink it down."

After he had taken all of it, Kitty set the mug on the table and picked up her glass, downing the shot, noting that Matt and Chester had already drained theirs. Wordlessly the three of them took their glasses, the mug and bottle out of the cell, waiting momentarily for Matt to lock it, and then they stepped into the office, Dillon leaving the connecting door open so that he could hear Doc if he cried out. They sat at the small table and Kitty poured another round.

"Mr. Dillon...do ya think Doc's gonna come outta this here thing?" Goode's long eyelashes batted in apprehension. "I mean, he don't seem to be gettin' any better..."

"I don't know, Chester," Dillon sighed, "I honestly don't know."

Kitty looked back through the door at the man sleeping in the cell. "At least that mug of whiskey seems to have calmed him down some."

"Yeah," Matt agreed, "but we can't keep pouring that down his gullet. We've gotta find a way to reach him."

Kitty shook her head. "We've tried, Matt. He either can't come of out it, or..."

Dillon's brow furrowed. "Or what?"

"Or he doesn't want to."

"Why didn't Doc jes' talk to one of us, Mr. Dillon? Why'd he have to go and bottle it all up inside him until now he's like a keg 'bout ta explode..."

Dillon glanced back through the door at the old doctor. "Doc probably just didn't want to burden us with it, Chester."

"It wouldn'ta been no burden, Mr. Dillon."

"Not to us, no. But to Doc...well, he's just not comfortable puttin' his past or his feelin's out on the table. Whatever hell he lived through, you can bet he's kept it to himself. But now it's caught up with him."

Kitty put a soft hand on Matt's arm. "With us," she corrected.

Dillon's eyes misted slightly over; the pride he felt toward her welling up inside of him. "Yeah," was all he managed to say.


	13. Chapter 13

Chester paced the length of the office, stopping in front of the stove to check on the pot of coffee. The sweat poured off of his brow and he wiped it with a rag from his back pocket. He stared down at the steaming pot and smiled slightly at the incongruity in drinking a hot liquid on such a scorcher of a day in Dodge. The marshal had the right idea when he headed across the street to the Longbranch for a few beers with Miss Kitty; but someone needed to keep an eye on Doc.

Poor Doc. He shook his head at the sadness he felt over the old man; while it was true that Doc Adams liked to try and ruin Goode's day with one feisty comment or another, the marshal's assistant recognized the ribbing for what it was: the only way Doc knew how to show his love for people close to him. Chester poured himself a mug of coffee and took a sip.

He grunted, making a face. "Too much chicory..."

The voice from the back room startled him. "Don't understand why you Southerners ruin your coffee with chicory anyhow..."

Chester walked through the connecting door to see Doc standing at the front of his cell, his strong hands gripping the bars tightly. The pale blue eyes appeared lined with age, and tired from days without proper rest, yet far more lucid than they had looked recently.

"D-doc?"

The intense blue pierced him. "What?"

Chester moved next to the bars. "Are...are ya all right?"

"How could anyone be all right locked up in this hellhole?"

"Well now, Doc, Mr. Dillon only done that to ya 'cause he was afraid you was gonna hurt yourself."

"The only one who's gonna get hurt around here's Voss, and I'll see to that personally!"

"V-Voss? Who's Voss?"

Doc grunted. "As if you didn't know."

"Well Doc, I don't..." Adams glared at Goode, but didn't respond. "Doc...don'tcha know me, Doc?" The pale blue eyes continued to stare into the chocolate brown, but Dillon's assistant began to understand that it wasn't him that the old man was seeing. "Doc? It's me, it's Chester. Chester Goode, Doc. You know me."

Adams grabbed the man by the shirt then, causing Chester to drop his mug of coffee, yelping in surprise.

Doc's voice sounded low and dangerous, "You're damned right I know who you are, Carp, and if you think you're gonna break me, you're wrong. I can take more. A lot more. How about you?" Adams roughly pulled Chester into the bars, Goode's head connecting harshly with the metal. Just half a chance, Carp, that's all I need. Just half a chance and I'll kill you with my bare hands."

"D-doc ...Doc...p-please let go, Doc." Chester's voice took on a pleading quality, "I don't wanna hurt you none, Doc. Please don't make me hurt ya none."

But Adams didn't let go: instead, his right hand, which Chester only knew as an instrument of healing, began squeezing the air from his friend's windpipe. "Having trouble breathing, Carp?"

"Doc!" Chester wailed, "Please, Doc!"

And Goode had to choose between hurting the old man or choking to death. With all his might he punched Adams hard across the cheek through the bars. When Adams still didn't let go, Chester pounded him again, this time clipping the old man in the temple, sending him reeling backward and to the floor, unconscious.

Horrified by his own instinct for survival, Chester gripped the bars tightly, leaning his bloody head against them. "Doc," he cried, "Oh Doc..."

Shaking with fear over what his own violent act had done, Chester sank to the floor, still gripping the cell bars in his hands. Tears of guilt and panic poured from his eyes, as he stared at the small doctor who lie as still as death on the cell floor.

_**February 15, 1864**_

"_It appears that Union HQ has thought of everything," the major commented._

"_You sound surprised, Major Conrad," Wilkins responded._

_Conrad smiled. "Not surprised so much as duly impressed, Dr. Wilkins."_

_Kramer pressed his ear to the crack between the bookcase and the wall in Wilkins' office, trying to pick up as many details about the escape as he could from the meeting in the tunnel, although why he was doing it, he wasn't sure; he had yet to go to Voss with any of the information. Kramer checked the watch he kept hidden in his sock, next to the confederate-issued knife; he needed to get back before anyone noticed his absence, and also to check up on Adams. The guards had taken the young lieutenant from the bunkroom much earlier than usual, and it didn't leave a good feeling in Kramer's stomach. He shook his head; such emotions would weaken him, and in a game of such deep-seated duplicity as the one they were all playing, emotion could prove fatal._

_Kramer had just begun to nod off when the guards opened the door to the bunkroom, tossing a small man inside. The corporal waited until the guards were gone, before seeing to the downed man who he knew was Adams. He gently rolled the young lieutenant over onto his back, eliciting a groan._

"_Doc? Doc, you all right?"_

_Adams moaned, then rolled to his side, spitting up blood. Kramer gently examined the man, and realized that they hadn't kept the beating to his body, evidenced by the ugly bruise forming on his left temple. Knowing Voss, such a change was not good news._

"_Jesus, Doc," Kramer whispered, "this looks bad."_

_Adams gripped the corporal's shirt and said, "I need Wilkins, please..."_

_And then the young surgeon passed out._

_Adams came to on the exam table in the triage room. He felt strong hands holding his shoulders down as he tried to move._

"_Easy, just lie still boy." He recognized Wilkins' voice and relief covered his face. Wilkins ran a soft hand over the young man's brow. "You've got a slight concussion from that blow you took on your left temple." Adams opened his eyes then and winced in pain. "It hurts, I know."_

"_Is he gonna be all right?" Kramer asked._

"_Yeah," Wilkins said, "he's a pretty tough little scrapper, although this beating was a bad one." The old doctor looked at his protégé then. "Any idea why Voss stepped it up on you, son?"_

"_No..."_

_Wilkins pat the young surgeon on the shoulder. "We'll have to put a stop to it then, won't we?" _

_Adams looked at him sharply and Wilkins winked; grinning, Adams winked back. "Yeah."_

_Kramer looked down, not wanting to give away the fact that he'd understood the underlying meaning of their exchange. But it reminded him of the fact that he needed to make a choice: either report to Voss, or come clean with Wilkins and hope the doctor would help him escape Libby. If not, he'd face a confederate firing squad for certain._

_**

* * *

February 16, 1864**_

_He observed Adams going about his rounds, but could tell that the lieutenant was far from all right._

"_Doc...why don't you take a break?" Kramer offered, "I'm sure one of the other assistants can cover you this afternoon. You had a rough night last night."_

_Adams smiled at him. "Nah, I'm fine, Roy, just a little stiff and sore today, that's all." He winked at the corporal then. "Besides, we wouldn't want these rebs thinkin' they got my goat, now would we?"_

_Kramer swallowed slightly. "Uh, no, Doc, no, I suppose we wouldn't."_

"_Good, then I won't have to worry about you tryin' to practice medicine any more this afternoon, especially on me!"_

_Adams smiled widely at the man, and Kramer chuckled, but it disappeared in his throat when he realized Carp was standing next to him._

"_Major Voss wants to see you, Kramer."_

"_Me? What does he want with me?"_

_Adams exchanged a worried glance with Roy, and Carp growled, "He don't tell me why, blue-coat, just that it needs doin'. Now move..."_

_Alarm rising in his belly, Adams watched Carp march Kramer from the room, and as quickly as his pounding head would allow, the young doctor went in search of Dr. Wilkins._

* * *

"_What the hell does Voss want with Kramer? He's just a corporal for God's sake."_

_Adams shook his head. "Maybe he's bored with me." The young surgeon looked hard into Wilkins' eyes. "You don't suppose Voss has caught on about tonight?"_

_Wilkins frowned. "The timing is surely suspicious enough, but I don't see how...unless..."_

"_Unless?"_

"_Elizabeth expressed concern some time ago that perhaps the confederates had their own man on the inside."_

"_A union officer?"_

"_Well, not a union man, but a man among you, yes." Panic began to rise in Adams' eyes and the old doctor pat his arm. "Don't worry boy, we've got an ace in the hole..."_

"_We do?"_

* * *

"_Yes. I want to see all of the incoming prisoners in here, now." Carp stood staring at him. "Get moving, man. NOW."_

_The sergeant shrugged, stepped through the door and then brought the men in a line, into the room. "Them's the men of the 9th Massachusetts Volunteers, sir."_

_The man looked over the ragtag group of men with disdain. "I'm Captain Erasmus Ross, clerk of Libby Prison. You will place all of your items of value on this desk in front of me before proceeding with the guards to the infirmary...those of you who can walk, in any case."_

_A union colonel growled, "You ain't gettin' nuthin' of mine, you stinkin' reb."_

_Ross stepped up to the man, his smile never wavering as he struck his fist across the colonel's jaw. "If you intend to survive, Colonel Starkey, I suggest you begin by doing what you're told. If the guards catch you with anything other than your pants and shirt later on, I promise you, you won't live to regret it." He turned sharply to Carp and the other guards. "See to it that these vile yankees don't leave with anything of value."_

"_Yes sir."_

_Ross walked out and stepped into the waiting room outside Voss' office, only to discover Kramer standing with his ear to Voss' door._

"_You! Boy! What do you think you're doing?"_

_Kramer turned to find Ross standing there, and his blood turned to ice in his veins. "I...I... well, Major Voss called me up here, and I...I've been waiting to see him an awful long time."_

"_With your ear to his door?"_

_The clerk's mean-spirited treatment of union officers was well-established, and Kramer knew that Ross had no idea he was a confederate officer, and he wasn't about to tell him now. But given what the corporal had just heard at Voss' door, he needed to get to Wilkins, and fast. But unfortunately he could only think of one way to do it._

_In a split second, his decision about which side of the line he was on had been made._

_Kramer lunged for Ross, landing a hard right cross to the man's jaw. Ross grabbed Kramer by his shirt and punched him in the face, followed by a hard jab in the gut, sending Kramer backward into a small table, knocking its contents to the floor. Kramer slowly stood and took a running start at the clerk, causing both of them to tumble over, slugging each other as they rolled and tossed. The door to Voss' office opened then, and the major stepped out._

"_What is the meaning of this?" But the two combatants kept on, oblivious to Voss. "Oh for land's sake..."_

_Voss bent over and pulled Kramer up by the shirt collar in one hand, and Ross in the other. He stared hard at his clerk. "What in the hell happened?"_

"_This...this...yankee was listening at your door, and when I asked him about it, he slugged me. Surely as a confederate officer, I am not expected to allow a piece of blue-coat trash to manhandle me in such a way."_

_Voss sighed. "No, captain, no." He glared at Kramer. "Get inside my office," he growled._

_Kramer moved into the office, and his face turned white as he realized that the man he had heard telling Voss all about the impending yankee escape was the man he knew as a union officer, Major Conrad._

_Kramer stood quietly, saying nothing, but he could feel the sweat begin to trickle down the back of his neck as he felt Conrad's eyes on him. After a few words outside with Ross, the major walked in, closing the door behind him._

"_Kramer, what in the hell were you doing out there?" Realizing he needed to play his part, he glanced over at Conrad, and then saying nothing, stared at Voss. An impatient sigh issued from the major's lips. "Corporal Kramer, meet Colonel Tanner, whom I believe you already know as Major Conrad."_

_Kramer turned to the taller man, extending his hand. "It's a pleasure to find out that we're on the same side, sir."_

_Tanner smiled, shaking his hand. "I've never heard a shred of that Georgian accent, Kramer, well done."_

_Voss spoke up again, "Colonel Tanner has been under deep cover for more than a year now as a union officer."_

_Kramer's eyes lit up with understanding. "And that's how your unit came to be captured and brought to Libby..."_

"_You're quick, corporal," Tanner commented. "I needed to pass along a lot of key information about General Grant and his plans, and it seemed like the easiest way to do it." Kramer waited for the man to mention the impending escape, but instead he said, "I've seen you working in the infirmary with Wilkins, haven't I?"_

"_That's right. I have more contact with all the men that way."_

"_Indeed." Tanner stood then and turned to Voss. "Well, major, I need to get back before anyone misses me. You know what to do."_

"_Yes, colonel, I do. And colonel... good luck."_

_He glared at Voss and eyed Kramer. "Yes, well, thank you."_

_Tanner walked out, closing the door behind him, and Voss smiled at Kramer; but the grin was not a pleasant one and it sent Kramer's skin crawling. "So tell me, Kramer, have you had any luck with rooting out the union spy?"_

_And Roy Kramer knew the bid was in: he was headed for a firing squad, or worse..._

_

* * *

He could barely open his eyes, but felt someone gently tapping his bruised cheek. "Kramer, come on, man. Wake up, corporal. Let's go..."_

_Kramer roused slightly and stared into the face of Erasmus Ross, and he tried to break away. "Easy, Kramer, strange as the fates would have it, we're on the same side." Kramer stared wildly at him and he smiled. "That is two men who are pretending to be with the South in this war."_

"_But how...?"_

"_It was pretty obvious after Voss was finished with you. Look," he handed Kramer a confederate uniform, "put this on, go down the front hallway and out the front door. A colored man will find you and tell you where to go from there."_

_Kramer eyed him suspiciously, and Ross rolled his eyes. "We don't have a lot of time, Kramer, Voss is lining up a firing squad for you now." Still Kramer stared at the man. "All right, look, I know you were a confederate spy planted with the union men; but I also know that you've been aware of the planned prison break for at least two days and you've said nothing. I indeed believe that you've changed your mind about where you stand in this war."_

"_Voss found out...how?"_

"_Conrad..."_

"_His real name's Tanner."_

_He shoved the uniform harder into Kramer's chest. "Put it on and get moving."_

"_I can't."_

"_What do you mean, you can't?"_

"_I have to warn Wilkins that Voss is going to put a stop to the escape."_

"_My good man, Voss has no intention of putting a stop to it."_

"_What?"_

"_He wants Tanner to get out as Conrad and back behind the union line, then he'll just kill the rest of the escapees, and Wilkins as well."_

"_But--"_

"_--Look, I'll warn Wilkins; the union men can take care of Tanner once he's out, but right now, I've got to make some subtle changes in this plan or it's going to get bloody. Put on the uniform and get out of here while you still can."_

_Before Kramer could argue further, Ross left the room. Still shaking from the beating he took, the corporal put on the confederate gray and started down the front hall, surprised that no one tried to stop him. But his conscience nagged at him as he neared the door; there was no guarantee that Ross was who he claimed to be, and if this was just a way for Voss to get Kramer out of the building so they could shoot him, then Wilkins would go ahead with the escape, and more than a hundred men might die, including Doc Adams - and of all the men, it was the young surgeon to whom the former confederate officer owed the largest debt. _

_And Roy Kramer recognized the opportunity that God had placed in front of him._

_

* * *

The men had slowly been seeping into the tunnel through Wilkins' office for the past two hours, waiting for the time that they could slip out into the water without being noticed, swim upriver, then head toward the Mason-Dixon line. Colonel Rose turned to Major Hamilton._

"_Are your men ready?"_

"_Yes sir."_

_Rose turned to the man he knew as Major Conrad. "Are your men accounted for?"_

"_Almost all, sir. Waiting for the assistant surgeon, Adams."_

"_I thought he was on my team," Hamilton said._

"_Last minute change from Wilkins," countered Conrad._

_They once again fell silent, as they waited for the appointed time in the dark tunnel._

_

* * *

Adams stared into the saddened old eyes of the man who had become like a father to him. "Not much to say after all this, is there?"_

"_There's a lot to say, boy, but finding the courage to say it..." The old man couldn't finish the statement and he smiled at Adams. "You take good care of yourself, son."_

"_I'll do my best." The pale blue eyes flicked up to meet the older ones so like his own. "You be careful around here; these walls seem to have ears..."_

_Wilkins nodded, but was too choked up to speak. Impulsively he pulled the young man to himself, holding him like a father would a son he knew he'd never see again. Adams held the old man tightly, his own eyes stinging with tears. The bookcase behind them moved slightly and Conrad appeared._

"_Adams...get in the tunnel, it's getting close to time."_

"_Yes sir."_

_He looked at Wilkins once more and held out his hand. "I'll never forget you, Dr. Wilkins."_

"_Nor I, you, little scrap." When the old man shook Adams' hand, he deposited two items in it. "I put these in a safe place when you first arrived. I figured if you made it, you'd want them back."_

_Adams gaped unbelievingly at the silver pocketwatch and the .36 caliber Navy that had belonged to Dr. Charles Bell. He stared into the light gray eyes smiling at him, but found his throat was too closed down with emotion to speak. _

"_You remember what I taught you, ya young whelp. Find your place and stay where you're needed, doctor."_

_Adams stood in the entryway of the tunnel. "You did save something from this war, Dr. Wilkins. I wouldn't have made it without you."_

_As Adams started to leave, the door to Wilkins' office burst open, and Kramer, dressed in a confederate uniform, his face bloodied and bruised, stumbled in. "Dr. Wilkins...they know! The confederates know about the escape, and--" Kramer stopped in his tracks as his eyes met with those of Colonel Tanner._

_Tanner pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants, and before Kramer could say another word, fired. The corporal dropped like a sack of flour to the floor, grabbing the wound on his chest._

"_Kramer!" Adams screamed as he knelt next to the corporal, ripping the uniform open to look at the wound._

_Tanner shoved the gun back into his pants. "Don't waste your time on him, Adams, he's a confederate spy."_

_Adams looked up at Major Conrad sharply. "You don't know that..."_

"_Look at his uniform, boy. How else would he have come to be dressed like that?" He turned to Wilkins. "You were right to be worried about a spy in our midst, doctor."_

_Wilkins knelt next to Adams and examined the wound. Realizing there was nothing to be done, he gently covered his protégé's hands with one of his, stopping him. The pale eyes bore into him, and Wilkins shook his head. "Let him go, boy. You know as well as I that there's nothing to be done."_

_Adams looked down and Kramer grabbed the young surgeon's shirt. "Doc," he whispered, "Doc..."_

_Wilkins stood and walked back toward Conrad, shaking his head._

"_Don't try to talk, Kramer," Adams said, "just lie easy."_

"_I was working for the South, Doc...but I didn't tell Voss about the escape...I swear I didn't, but Voss knows..."_

_Tanner started toward Kramer, but Wilkins restrained him with a hand on his arm. "Leave him be, Conrad."_

_Wilkins and Tanner looked on as Adams leaned his ear down to hear Kramer's final words. They watched as he grasped the corporal by the lapel in anger, but then lowered him gently to the floor in death. Adams closed Kramer's eyes and let out a long sigh of air before standing back up. After a moment he turned to look at Wilkins and Tanner, and his pale eyes were glaring with betrayal._

"_Adams," Tanner said, "let's get going. The guards will have heard that shot and they'll be here any second."_

_But Adams didn't move._

"_What's the matter, boy?" Wilkins asked gently._

_Adams stared hard at Tanner as he answered Wilkins. "Kramer admitted that he was a spy, Dr. Wilkins, but he just whispered to me that he wasn't the only one."_

_Wilkins moved next to Adams, who never took his eyes off of Tanner. "Who did he say it was, boy?"_

_Tanner pulled the gun from his pants. "I guess this is the end of the line for our little charade."_

_Adams took a step away from Wilkins. "You can't kill us both, Conrad - or should I say, Colonel Tanner?"_

"_The boys' right," Wilkins added, "You can't win here..."_

"_It's Colonel Tanner, you vile turncoat," he said to Wilkins, "and I can win. The guards will be here soon enough, and that'll suit me just fine. Whether I kill you or they do makes little difference, you'll be just as dead."_

_The voice from behind them caused Wilkins and Adams to turn. "I thought I heard a shot," the captain said, the gun in his hand menacingly cocked. He looked down at Kramer's body. "Odd, I thought that man was a blue-coat..."_

_Adams swallowed hard: the last thing they needed was the damn blowhard clerk who worked for Voss. His eyes glanced over at Wilkins, who looked strangely calm._

"_It's about time someone showed up," Tanner growled, putting his gun back in the waistband of his pants. "I need you to eliminate these two, Ross, and the escape can move forward as Major Voss and I have planned." He looked strangely at Ross then, realizing the man was alone. "Where are the rest of the guards?"_

"_I told them to stay out of this corridor..."_

"_Why'd you do that?"_

_Ross moved into the room, standing between Adams and Wilkins. "I told them that Major Voss set up some blue-coat executions and that when they heard shooting they were to remain at their posts."_

_Tanner smiled. "Clever way to keep them clear. The fewer of our people who know about this infiltration of the union army, the better I suppose."_

"_I quite agree."_

_And Ross pulled the trigger, dropping Tanner where he stood._

_Adams stared unbelievingly at Ross who put his gun back in its holster. Ross glared at the young man. "What?"_

"_Just glad you're on our side is all..." He looked at his mentor. "That's some ace you stacked the deck with."_

_Wilkins winked. "He gets the job done."_

_Adams glanced at the single shot in Tanner's forehead. "I'll say."_

"_What about Voss?" Wilkins asked Ross, "Do we need to abort?"_

"_Too late for that. Voss knows about you, and for all I know, Elizabeth too. He has to be eliminated."_

"_How?"_

"_I sent a note to him telling him I uncovered a plot of escape and that I was headed here to put a stop to it. He should be here shortly because the last thing he wants is for me to interfere..."_

_Wilkins nodded and turned to the young surgeon. "All right boy, it's time for you to go."_

_Adams nodded and glanced down at Kramer. "You'll take care of him?"_

"_Yes." He looked his protégé in the eyes. "What did he tell you?"_

"_That he was the one who killed Jimmy, but that he hoped that God might not condemn him to hell for eternity since he tried to help us in the end." Adams shook his head sadly. "He said he wanted to be buried as a union soldier."_

"_I'll see to it, son," Wilkins said, "don't you worry. Now get going boy, and god's speed."_

_Tears filled Adams eyes as he gripped the older man's solid hand in his. "It's been an honor serving with you, captain." Adams took a sharp step backward, straightened up and for the first time since he'd known Wilkins, saluted him. Then he quickly turned and disappeared through the small tunnel door._

"_Come on," Ross said, ignoring the misty eyes of his comrade. "Let's get these bodies out of here."_

"_Don't move a muscle, gentlemen," Voss' cold voice said from the doorway to Wilkins' office. Ross swore under his breath and Voss smiled, stepping aside to allow Carp into the office with him. "Erasmus, you do surprise me...I would never have guessed you as a turncoat. But you have played your role well."_

_Adams froze in the tunnel as soon as he heard the major's voice. He looked at the pocketwatch Wilkins had given back to him, and thankfully the man had wound and set it. Adams took off at a run and made the full length of the tunnel in less than a minute. Rose jogged to meet him as he saw him coming._

"_What the hell happened, lieutenant?"_

"_There's been some trouble, colonel."_

"_I heard shooting...where's Major Conrad?"_

"_Conrad won't be coming. He was a confederate officer named Tanner."_

"_Oh my God, he knew the whole plan--"_

"_--Yeah. Look, I need to go back and help Dr. Wilkins."_

"_Adams, we can't wait, especially if the gray-coats are onto us."_

"_Don't worry, I'll catch up. Good luck, colonel."_

_Rose nodded and quickly moved toward the waiting union prisoners. Without looking behind him, Adams ran back through the tunnel as fast as his legs would carry him..._

Matt and Kitty walked in the front door of the jail, expecting to see Chester there, but he wasn't in the office.

"Now where do you suppose he got off to?" Dillon said to Kitty. "Chester!" Dillon called as he walked into the room with the cells. "Chester, where are--" Matt froze. "Kitty, bring the keys!" Matt knelt next to Goode, who was leaning against the bars, weeping. Dillon looked into the cell and his heart stopped. He shook his assistant's shoulder. "Chester? What the hell happened?"

"I killed him, Mr. Dillon," Chester cried, "I didn't mean to do it - you know I'd never hurt Doc, but--"

Dillon shook him hard. "--But what?"

"He had a holt of my neck, Mr. Dillon, and I couldn't breathe, he was chokin' me so hard..."

"Oh Matt..." Kitty said when she saw Adams on the floor of the cell.

Dillon stood, taking the keys from her. "Can you see to Chester?"

Dazed, she nodded and knelt next to Goode. "Come on, Chester, come with me."

"No ma'am, I'm stayin' here."

Kitty gently pulled the distraught Chester into her, patting his back. She watched Dillon as he knelt next to Doc, who didn't look like he was breathing.

She couldn't keep the tremor from her voice, "Matt?"

Dillon gently rolled Doc over, pulling the small man's upper body into his arms. He felt for a pulse at Doc's neck and relief filled him.

"He's alive."

"You hear that, Chester?" Kitty said, "Doc's still with us. Now calm down..."

Matt carefully checked the bruises at Adams' temple. "Doc?" Gently he pat the old man's cheek. "Come on, ol' boy." But Adams didn't respond and despair filled every inch of the big man's frame. He fought the sting of sadness with anger as he looked at Goode. "Why'd you have to hit him so hard, Chester? Doc's not a large man...what the hell were you thinking?"

"I didn't mean to, Mr. Dillon, you know that I...I didn't wanna hurt him. I just didn't have no choice. Doc isn't a big man, but he sure has strong hands."

Kitty looked at Chester's throat. "Matt, he's got some bad bruises on his neck."

"You didn't have to hit him so hard, Chester," Dillon growled.

Guilt and sadness consuming him, Chester broke away from Kitty and quickly left the room, tears spilling down his cheeks.

"Matt," Kitty scolded, "I know you're scared about Doc, so'm I, but I can't believe you lashed out at Chester like that. You know he didn't do it on purpose."

Dillon pulled the old physician protectively into his chest, his voice full of regret. "I know that, Kitty," he said quietly, "I'm just..." He took a breath trying to control his spinning emotions. "I just hate this..."

She walked into the cell and knelt next to Dillon. "I know you do, cowboy." She raked her fingers through Matt's hair. "If Doc could, he'd tell you to settle down." Her crystal eyes filled with tears. "He'd tell you to stop making a fuss, and to quite treatin' him like a baby." Slow tears rolled down the lawman's cheeks as he nodded at her. She brushed away the moisture from his face. "Doc's a strong man, Matt; we have to hold onto that." He nodded again, and she stroked her hand over his brow. "You want me to take him?"

Dillon shook his head. "No. I'm gonna put him on the cot, I'd like to stay with him for awhile."

Hearing the unspoken request to be left alone, Kitty smiled and kissed his forehead before standing up. "Sure, Matt, sure. I'm gonna see to Chester."

He called to her when she was at the door. "Kitty...tell Chester I'm sorry."

"I will, Matt. You take care of Doc."

She left, softly closing the connecting door behind her...

"_Both of you, up against the wall," Voss ordered, waving his gun at them. Then he smiled as he put away his gun, and turning to his sergeant he calmly said, "Carp, kill them."_

"_No!" Adams screamed as he plunged from the tunnel, his .36 Navy in his hand. Carp squeezed off a minie ball, hitting Wilkins in the belly, and as the old surgeon went down, a blind rage overtook Adams as he pointed his weapon at the sergeant, firing several shots into him, cutting him down before he could get off another bullet. But in his rage over seeing Wilkins shot down, Adams had forgotten about Voss; and the major had the cold level on the young surgeon from behind._

"_Drop it, Adams. And you, Ross, don't so much as twitch."_

_But Adams remained frozen in grief and anger, the gun shaking slightly in his hand, as he stood in between Voss and Ross. His eyes looked hard into the unarmed clerk's, the silent message plain; Adams was going to turn and fire on the major, and Ross would have mere seconds to pickup a weapon and finish the job if Adams missed. Ross nodded almost imperceptibly and Adams smiled at him, knowing that his sacrifice would not be wasted._

"_Drop it Adams," Voss growled, "I'm not gonna tell you again."_

"_Duck, boy!" Wilkins screamed, still lying where he had fallen only moments before._

_Without thinking, Adams obeyed his mentor, dropped and rolled to the side. Wilkins fired the gun in his hand, and Voss fell, blood trickling from his mouth. Overwhelming pain in his belly caused Wilkins to drop the smoking gun to the floor, as he gasped for air. Adams went to him, ripping the old surgeon's shirt open. He assessed the wound, but couldn't see through the tears that had clouded his eyes as he blotted at the blood with a cloth that Ross handed him. Wilkins cried out in pain, grabbing the young surgeon's hand, hard._

"_Stop, boy," the old man wheezed, "please..."_

_Adams slammed his eyes shut against the searing pain in his heart. "No," he whispered. "No..."_

_Wilkins held the hand in his tenderly. "It's all right, son. It wasn't in vain..." The old doctor caressed the strong hand of his protégé. "You're a good boy, Adams, and I love you the way I did my son." A strange little smile curved his face then. "It's funny...but death gives you the courage to say it..."_

_The old man's eyes fluttered closed and his head rolled to one side, the last of his breath pushing through his lungs. A single sob escaped Adams' lips as he pressed his forehead into their clasped hands. The hole in his heart was unbearable, and the young man knew that for the rest of his life, he'd feel a little bit lonely. Ross put a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder._

"_You'd better go, Adams. I'll see to Dr. Wilkins."_

_After a long moment, the pale blue eyes looked up at him, tears still clouding them; but there was a strength in the setting of his jaw. "I'm staying."_

"_What?"_

_The doctor looked at the man who had taught him so much more than just medicine. "Find your place, do the best you can, and stay where you're needed." He looked at Ross. "I'm needed here now, and I'm staying."_

"_Whatever you say, doctor."_

_The tears in his eyes softly fell down his cheeks, but he smiled at the clerk. "Most people around here call me Doc..."_

Dillon easily lifted the doctor up, stretching him out on the bunk. He pulled up a chair and sat in it, drawing Doc's hand in between his, holding it tightly.

"I've never been one to say prayers, Doc, you know that. You've always believed strongly enough in the Almighty for both of us." Dillon paused, wetting his lips, forcing the emotion in his chest back down. "But now I figure it's up to me..." The big man swallowed hard, pushing the lump in his throat away. "I don't know how to ask this right; given how lucky I've been over the years, I probably got no right askin'..." Dillon leaned his forehead on his two hands which were still clutching the doctor's. "I'm askin' for Doc, even though I know he'd never ask for himself." Matt closed his eyes tightly against the tears that fell down his cheeks. "I know it's not an even trade, but if you've gotta take a soul, please let it be mine." Dillon's voice began to tremble with emotion as he no longer had the strength to hold it back. "Please God," he wept, "don't take Doc from us; don't take him away from me--"

And Matt Dillon lost the battle for control over his languishing heart. He wept hard, gripping Doc's hand so tightly between his own that his knuckles began to turn white. The large tears dripped onto the hands clasped strongly against his forehead, his heart threatening to burst in the agony of his grief. And somewhere deep inside Galen Adams, an emotional thread broke, snapping him from his waking hell. Dillon felt the strong, caring hand on his face, gently caressing his cheek, and Matt stared into a concerned and lucid sea of pale blue.

"Matt..." Adams couldn't keep the panic from his voice, "Matt, what is it? What's the matter, son?"

"What's the matter?" He echoed, staring into the confused eyes of his old friend. Dillon took a deep breath. "Doc...are you okay?"

Doc realized then that they were in a jail cell, that his head hurt, and that he felt wrong somehow. "I...I don't know," he stammered. Panic colored the pale blue again. "Matt, what the hell's goin' on?"

Dillon moved to sit on the edge of the cot. "You've been sick, Doc. Really sick."

Adams looked at the confines of the jail cell and shivered, despite the overwhelming heat of late July in Kansas. He pierced Matt with his steely gaze, his tone laced with incredulity, "Sick?"

"You've been hallucinating." Dillon swallowed hard, knowing he needed to explain why Adams was locked in a cell, and he knew it was going to hurt the old man. "I'm afraid you haven't been yourself for quite a few days now..."

Adams let his head fall back onto the pillow, recollections of the past few days flashing in his mind. He groaned in pain as he reached for his bruised temple. "Did you hit me?"

"No...I'm afraid Chester did that."

"Chester? Why the hell did he hit me so hard? Doesn't he know a blow like this on a man's temple can kill him?"

Dillon pulled Doc's hand off the bruise and tilted the old man's head toward him. "Lemme see it..." He gingerly pressed on it and Doc winced. "Sorry ol' boy. He clipped you pretty good." Doc pushed up until he was sitting next to Matt, but he felt dizzy. He held his head in his hands. "Doc, why don't you just lie back and rest for a few minutes? You've had a pretty tough time of it, you know..." Doc nodded, and gently Dillon put a hand under the old man's head and leaned him back down on the bunk. The pale blue eyes were full of pain, but Matt could see it wasn't just from his bruised face. "You wanna tell me about it?"

Doc's eyes shifted away. "I've never talked about it, Matt, not to anybody." The pale blue eyes turned back to meet Matt's caring face. "But I suppose if I'd talked about it with you, this might not have happened. It's not good fer a man to keep things bottled up inside him; not things like this."

"Libby Prison?"

"Yeah."

"I've heard that place was hell. How long were you there?"

"From mid-1861 until the end of the war."

"That's almost four years, Doc."

"Yeah. Four years of hell." He smiled slightly then. "But fer as awful as it was, Matt, I wouldn't be the same doctor if I hadn't gone through it."

"You tellin' me it made you a better doctor?"

"Yeah, it did. But it damaged me as a man..."

* * *

When Kitty wandered back into the jail several hours later, she found Matt asleep in the chair by the bunk in the back cell, his hand holding Doc's. Quietly she crept into the cell, intending to blow out the lantern still aglow on the small table. The voice from the cot made her jump. 

"Don't wake him yet."

She turned sharply toward the man she thought had been asleep on the cot, and although it made her ashamed, she felt a surge of fear. "Doc?"

The pale blue eyes intently studied her in the lamplight, and they flashed a terrible guilt, knowing that he had tried to harm her. He swallowed hard. "Yes, honey?"

She sat softly on the cot. "You're okay now, aren't you?"

"If you call being stiff and sore with a bruised temple okay," he said with mock annoyance, "then yes, I suppose I'm okay."

She reached across his body and grasped his free hand. "You scared me."

"You'll never know how ashamed I am about that honey..."

"No, Doc, I don't mean that; I was scared I might lose you forever."

He squeezed the small hand in his. "Well you didn't, so don't you give it another thought."

Her crystal eyes pierced his with their concern. "You talked it out with Matt?" He nodded. "Will you be okay now, Doc?"

He nodded again, but felt the guilt of the fear in her eyes land in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm sorry I put the three of you through this, Kitty, I guess I just never realized how much my time at Libby had haunted me until Haskett mentioned it the other day. And..." He shrugged. "Well, I never faced any of it, and it sorta just tumbled me down." He pulled her hand up to his lips and kissed it. "I don't want you to worry, Kitty, it might take a little bit of time, but I'm gonna be okay."

"What brought you out of it, Doc?"

Doc looked away for a moment, thinking, then he turned his eyes back to face her. "I'll let Matt tell you about that, honey..."

Understanding, she brushed her hand through Doc's hair. "Somethin' between you boys, huh?"

He shrugged, smiling shyly. "Kinda."

"You know, you could do with a good night's rest." He winced when her fingers brushed against his bruised temple. "Oh Doc, I'm sorry." She gently rubbed his cheekbone with her thumb and then the back of his head with her fingers. "I'll bet that head of yours hurts like hell..."

"Yeah, Chester gave me a good one."

"He feels awful about it, Doc." She let go of his hand and put both of hers on his face, tilting it to better examine the damage in the low light. "This looks pretty bad, you know." She winked at him. "Maybe you should see a doctor."

He gave her a stern look, and then his face dissolved into a smile. "You volunteering?"

She laughed softly. "Sure, handsome. What can I do to make it feel better?"

He tapped his own forehead with his index finger. "A little kiss right there oughta do it."

She leaned down and kissed him softly on the brow, brushing her hand over it. "There. Anything else?"

He shook his head. "No. I think you filled the prescription. Now go away and leave me alone, and take this big marshal with ya, I'd like to have my right hand back now."

She gently shook Dillon's shoulder. "Matt? Come on, cowboy, Doc needs to get some sleep."

"Hmmm?" His eyes opened, and he quickly let go of Adams' hand. He looked up at Kitty. "How long've you been here?"

"Not too long." She pulled him up by the arm. "Come on, Doc's tired..."

Dillon looked down at the old man. "You gonna be all right by yourself, ya ol' country croaker?"

"Yes," Doc growled in annoyance, "I'll be fine by myself! I don't need some kinda nursemaid!" He glared at the man he loved like a son. "And if I did need one, you can bet I'd ask Kitty! She's a helluva lot prettier to look at than the likes of you!"

"Uh-huh." He arched an eyebrow. "You sure you wouldn't be more comfortable in your own bed at home?"

"First you lock me up in here, and now you want to throw me out on the street! I'm too tired to move, ya young whelp. Besides, in case I have a relapse and want to eliminate someone in the middle of the night, I'd like to be sure you're close at hand."

Dillon laughed then. "Get some sleep, ol' boy."

Kitty walked out, and when Dillon hit the door, Doc softly called to him, "Matt?"

"Yeah, Doc?"

The pale blue eyes stared intently into the shimmering ones, and the old man swallowed hard, loosing his nerve. "Good night," he muttered.

Dillon's brow furrowed slightly in concern. "You all right?"

He nodded. "Yeah..." Then he mustered a growl, "Get outta here!"

Smiling, Dillon walked out, softly closing the connecting door behind him so that Doc could get some sleep. Adams stared after the big marshal for a moment, his mind reeling back to another lifetime, when he had been the young man. And he realized that Dr. Wilkins had been right: he just hoped Dillon would be there when death gave him the courage to tell Matt that he loved him like a son.

It was his only measure of devotion.

The End


End file.
